Somewhere, he knew, the boy who lived was, well, living. Presumably, he was safe, well loved. Maybe he had a kitten named Astro. Perhaps he attended Shabbat services with his family on Fridays, followed by a traditional meal. As he grew up, of course, he would find out he was a wizard. Going off to school would complicate his life a little; his Bar Mitzvah would have to be postponed until summer.
That's what you'd like to think happened to the boy who lived, isn't it? You'd like to think that it was all speckled lemonade on a warm, summer evening, that the hardest thing he ever put up with was a baseball injury.
You'd be wrong, though, if you thought all of that.
Harry groaned as he woke up. His entire body throbbed in pain. Instinctively, he stretched, only to hit his arms and legs up against the walls of his cramped space. He felt for his spectacles and tried to remember where he was. There were days that he didn't know, mostly due to one too many blows to the head or to the nose. After thinking a moment, he realized that yes, he was still in his cupboard, and no, the light bulb was not going to turn on. Sighing, he fished for a lighter and lit a candle.
The warm light illuminated much. The cupboard was covered with relics of a lonely boy. Tattered sheets of paper containing poems covered the wall, a testament to his treatment here. Pictures he had drawn as child, hopelessly forgotten as life slowly progressed into torture. Once, he had been happy. Then, of course, he had wound up here, with the Durselys.
He ran a hand through his shaggy, rambunctious hair as he looked for his release. A tattered bag, made out of an old sock, contained what he was looking for. One concoction cooked over a candle with a spoon later, and Harry was feeling quite dandy. His muscles began to relax, his mind wandered. Then, the memories came back to him.
"But Uncle," the boy whimpered, "I've done the dishes already." His protests were not heard, as he was grabbed by his hair and slammed into the wall.
"I don't care, boy," Vernon growled, "you'll do them again, until they're spotless. You see this spot," he asked, holding the boy's nose up to the plate. "Being the stupid, lazy boy that you are, you neglected to clean this spot. Just think, Dudley could have eaten off of this plate."
Vernon began to shake the boy, and then drug him to the bathroom. Grabbing him by the hair, he forced Harry to stare at himself in the mirror.
"Look at you," he yelled. "You're hideous. An abomination to the human race." His uncle seemed oblivious to the tears that were rolling down Harry's gaunt cheeks and falling like raindrops onto the floor. Suddenly, however, Vernon threw a punch at Harry's face, nearly knocking him to the floor. "You'll clean up the mess you made crying later, worthless boy. Now look in the fucking mirror before I decide to hit you again." Hurriedly, Harry looked into the mirror. Had he not been in extreme duress, he might have noticed that he had large circles under his eyes, that his face was nearly skeletal. He might have even tried to do something about it. Now, however, it was all that he could do to hold back the tears to avoid being hit again.
"I want you to say it," hissed Vernon. "Say it until you believe it, say it until you realize that you can't possibly be worth anything." When Harry merely stared at the mirror, Vernon slapped him and yelled.
Mumbling, Harry began. "I am worthless, I am stupid. No one could ever love a freak like me. I am lucky that anyone would ever put up with my oddity."
"Louder," hollered Vernon, hitting the boy again.
"I am worthless, I am stupid. No one could ever love a freak like me. I am lucky that anyone would ever put up with my oddity."
"That's better," Vernon said, smirking viciously. "Now continue until I fetch you to prepare dinner." He exited, locking Harry in the bathroom.
Harry knew better than to stop saying what his uncle had instructed him to say. He'd tried that once and wound up tied to a bed, raped, and without food for days. He also knew, however, ways to cope with what his uncle demanded of him. Yelling the phrase all the while, Harry opened the medicine cabinet and reached for a pair of scissors sitting on the shelf. Without ceremony, he rolled up his sleeve, and slashed at it with the scissors, a river of red coming forth. Suddenly, he felt a release. Although his body was under the control of someone else, his mind, his spirit had escaped. Although his mouth spoke the words, he no longer heard them.
Harry stood at platform 9 ¾, waiting for Ron and Hermione to show. He was restless, and wanted to get as far away from London as possible. Every time he heard an unexpected noise, he flinched, thinking that it would be his uncle, coming to take him away. Finally, he could stand it no longer and pulled a fag from his pocket. He had just lit up and taken in a calming drag when he heard a chiding, motherly voice.
"Honestly, Harry, what sort of people have let you believe that a child your age can smoke," scolded Mrs. Weasely. She pulled the fag from his lips, put it out, and promptly disposed of it, all in one quick, smooth motion. Harry shrugged, and was quickly enveloped in a warm hug.
How was your summer, dear," she asked, smoothing down his wayward hair.
"Pretty much the same as always," he replied. It wasn't a lie, really.
"Well, that's good, then, isn't it? Did your family get to go to Ireland again," She inquired.
"Yeah," he said. Same lie as the year before.
"Hey, mum, stop giving him the third degree," spoke Ron. Harry looked up to see that his compatriot in crime had grown nearly five inches in one summer. He smiled. Except for the extra height, Ron looked just the same as always.
"I am just concerned for his well being," she said, "I mean, look at him, it looks like he's been visiting Auschwitz or something." She tugged at his baggy clothes and made concerned, clucking noises.
"Come off it, mum," retorted Ron, "if he says he's ok, then he is."
"Harry, Ron," called a familiar voice, "we're about to miss the train." Abruptly, Harry felt himself being pulled toward the train by Ron and a very exuberant Hermione. The three of them practically ran through the train to try to get a compartment to themselves. Harry relaxed. Everything felt all right now. The train was familiar, he was with his two best friends, and there was no way that his uncle could get to Hogwarts, especially since he didn't even know how to get onto the platform.
Finally, the trio found themselves in a cozy compartment and Harry plopped down onto the seat as if he was utterly exhausted. Really, though, he wasn't. He'd merely given himself a "treatment" before he left the Durselys, and it was just now starting to take effect. He hoped that he would be able to use his "treatments" to normalize his demeanor.
"Geez, Harry, what's so funny," asked Hermione, eyeing Harry's goofy, wide grin suspiciously.
"Aw, nothing. I'm just glad to be away from Dudley, that's all," Harry replied. That was a safe statement, because it was true.
"I dunno, mate," said Ron, "you're looking pretty kooky to me. Maybe you need something to eat." With that, Ron went to flag down a refreshment cart. Meanwhile, Hermione turned to Harry and began chattering.
"So I've neglected my studies so much this summer, but I really think I can catch up, especially since I've decided to drop Divination and Muggle Studies," she spoke.
"You had time to study this summer," asked an incredulous Harry. He dwelled on the thought for a moment. Such an idea seemed luxurious to him. What would it have been like to feel safe enough to study? It had been all he could do to keep himself alive.
"Of course I studied some, silly. I've got to keep up. You really ought to as well. It's not like we've had the luck to be surrounded by magic all our lives. Really, we have to make up for lost time," she chided. Harry nodded.
"Anyway," she continued, obviously oblivious to Harry's disinterest, "I learned some really useful memory charms over the summer. They come in quite handy when studying. Basically, you look at an object and say 'Quiero recordar,' and you're able to remember something with ease." She looked at Harry, expecting him to say something concerning her achievement. Luckily, at that moment, Ron entered the car, carrying what looked like the entire refreshment cart. He had apparently thought that Harry looked like he needed food. Harry, not one to turn his nose up at food, grabbed a small pumpkin tart, and began munching on it. The three munched and chatted aimlessly until they arrived at Hogwarts.
Harry barely made it through the rest of the social events of the day. Dinner seemed to drag on for hours, mainly because Dumbledore decided to begin his speech by saying "Lemon Drops" in as many languages as he could. He only ended the madness because he couldn't remember how vowel sounds worked in Gaelic. Finally, he had ended the madness with some inane muggle song that Harry had never heard before. Apparently, it involved a lot of nonsense words. Hermione laughed, and seemed to know the song. Harry wondered why anyone would ever want to write a song wherein the most complex sentiment expressed is "Mmmbop." Exhausted, he flopped onto his bed, and began to think through the night. Many comments had been made about Harry's appearance. Nearly all of them had been made behind his back, but Harry had remarkably good hearing. Some had thought that Harry was too thin. Others, including a gaggle of girls at the Hufflepuff table, had whispered that he looked the epitome of emo, whatever that was. He could only guess that it was a compliment of some sort.
Relaxed and drowsy from a good meal, Harry began to drift off into sleep. It didn't matter that he tried to fight it. His body took over and shut down due to exhaustion.
His first time had been nearly eight years ago. It had been a lovely spring day, and Harry was walking home from school, excited that he had received a decent mark on an exam. "Maybe," he thought, "I'll get a Popsicle like Dudley does when he receives a good mark." He sped up his pace, wanting to get home to show aunt and uncle that he wasn't entirely stupid after all. Maybe they would believe his teacher. Nearly running, he burst through the door, saying, "Look, look, I did good at school today."
Petunia had been washing her favorite china when the little hellion burst in, startling her nearly out of her wits. She shrieked, dropped the dish she had been drying, and then grabbed Harry by the ear.
"Whatever this is about," she hissed, "it better be important because you just destroyed one of my favorite dishes." Petunia glared at the eight-year-old boy in her hands, daring him to speak.
Stuttering, Harry replied, "I…I did good at school today, aunt. I got a B+ on my math test." He handed her his test, hands shaking.
Suddenly, Petunia let go of Harry, grabbed the test, and tore it to shreds. Then, she backhanded a very stunned boy, and grabbed his hair. Yelling, she dragged him to the cupboard under the stairs.
"You just wait until your uncle gets home, you stupid little brat," she screamed, throwing him into the cupboard. As Harry hit the wall, he heard the door lock, and he began to cry, fearing what might happen come dinnertime.
Later that evening, Harry heard someone fumbling with his cupboard door. Quivering in fear, he waited for it to open, knowing who was on the other side. The door swung open, and Vernon reached in and grabbed the boy. Immediately, he punched the boy in the stomach, causing him to sputter and stumble. Harry began to cry. Smirking, Vernon spoke.
"You ain't seen nothing yet, boy. Now strip. On the couch. Now."
Harry knew better than to disobey, and he removed his shirt and practically ran to the couch. Laying there, he waited for the impending hiss and crack of the whip. When it did not come, he became confused. Shortly, he heard a low chuckle from behind.
"Stupid boy, you forgot to take it all off," Vernon said, hitting the boy with his belt. Before Harry could move to acquiesce to this strange request, Vernon reached down and pulled his pants off. He began to run his hands over Harry's body, touching him where no one had ever touched him before. Harry lay there, paralyzed in fear, waiting for his uncle to stop petting him and lay into him. Instead, he felt his uncle touching his bum, prying his cheeks apart. Before Harry could wonder what would happen next, he felt a searing pain ram into him, as if someone had decided to jam a stick up through him. Harry screamed, and then felt his uncle hit him.
"Don't yell, boy," he scolded. "It'll just make it worse." Just when Harry was about to think that it couldn't possibly get worse, he felt something moving, in and out of him. It was as if it was determined to rip him in two, and it was definitely his uncle doing it. He whimpered, and was rewarded with a blow to the head. The moving continued, until it seemed like someone was trying to enter his body with a battering ram. It was then that Harry passed out from the pain.
Harry sat up in bed, panting, drenched in his own sweat. He felt as if he were trapped. His bed felt too small, his cupboard unsafe. It was too dark, he realized, for him to feel as if everything were going to be ok. He had to hide, otherwise uncle might find him, might do to him what had been done before.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that he wasn't at the Dursely's house. No, his bed was far too large for that. Looking around as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he realized that he was as far away from home as he could possibly be while remaining in the same country. He took a deep breath. Though he realized where he was, nervousness still wracked his body. The dreams had been all too real. It felt as if he were being violated now, being beaten now. When he closed his eyes, he saw Vernon's angry face. When he opened them again, the dark played tricks on him, making him think that Vernon's hands were just around the bend, waiting to grab him and punish him for something that he'd forgotten to telepathically realize to do.
He had to get out. Without a second thought, he grabbed his makeshift bag and his invisibility cloak and darted out of the dorm. In his hurried attempt to get away from all of his thoughts, he nearly fell down the stairs. Steadying himself, he walked out into the Gryffindor common room and took in the familiar sight. Even though it was nearly three in the morning, a fire smoldered in the fireplace. Overstuffed furniture graced the room, inviting him to plop down and cease this mad dash. He looked around, and realized that no one was in here, and that all of the paintings looked to be asleep. The paintings gossiped nearly as bad as some of the Slytherin girls. Once, he and Hermione had engaged in a late night conversation by the fire, and the very next morning, the entire school had known about it. Convinced that all of the paintings were asleep, he sat down in front of the fireplace and emptied the contents of his bag.
God, he needed a fix. With an eerie efficiency, he began the preparations. A candle was unceremoniously lit. Soon, a spoon hovered over it. Harry watched it in anticipation, waiting for it to boil a bit. He wondered when all of this had happened, when he had become Harry Potter, the boy who did drugs, Harry Potter, the boy who could prepare crack in his sleep. It wasn't something he liked, he knew. It had become necessary. He needed it to get through each and every day. It helped him forget the abuse, the troubles, the fact that Sirius…
Suddenly, the concoction began to boil, and Harry was snapped out of his train of thought. He blew on it to cool it, and then filled his needle, being careful not to get any air into the tip. "Boy, that'd be ironic," he thought, "the boy who kept on living in spite of it all accidentally killed himself trying to shoot up heroin." Suddenly, he felt a release as he injected into himself. All of his problems seemed to float away. He was not hungry, he did not miss Sirius, and he couldn't remember any of the things that had happened to him. Truly, this was Harry's favorite state. It was a perfect state of calm, of comfort.
He barely remembered to clean up his supplies before he passed out on the sofa.
"Harry, Harry, wake up. You'll be late for Potions," Hermione spoke. She shook Harry gently, trying to get him to open his eyes.
"I don't wanna get up," he finally answered.
"Well, I hardly think that's an option," she retorted. "Now get up, go upstairs and change, and then we'll go to breakfast." She waited impatiently for a moment before adding, "Harry, I didn't say that you could take your sweet time about it. I said now."
Grudgingly, Harry moved. Just as he was about to get up and walk upstairs, he heard Ron speak.
"Hey, mate, what's this rubbish," he asked, holding up the makeshift bag.
"Oh, it's nothing," Harry replied, grabbing it from Ron. "Just some stuff from home that I was looking at last night." With that, he ran up the stairs, changed with remarkable speed, grabbed his school bag, and ran back down the stairs to see Ron and Hermione waiting for him.
"All right then, mate," said Ron, looking at him and smiling.
"Yeah," said Harry, grinning back. Then, as if nothing was wrong in the least, the three headed off to breakfast, laughing and talking and comparing schedules. "It's going to be a long year," thought Harry.
"Potter," a voice yelled, "what in blazes do you think you're doing?"
Harry snapped to attention and looked at the cauldron that he and Ron shared. Nothing looked amiss to him. The potion was clearly pink, and smelled of elderberry, just as Snape had said it should. Convinced he could find nothing wrong, he answered.
"Mixing a calming draught," he replied.
"Why did you add essence of raspberry seeds to it," sneered Snape.
"Because it needed it," Harry replied.
"Why? What did you do wrong," said Snape.
"Um…we didn't do anything wrong, professor," said Ron, looking ready to deck the surly potions master.
"Quiet, Weasley. Maybe you didn't do anything wrong, but Potter here did," hissed Snape, glowering at Harry. When Harry didn't respond, Snape glared at him and said, "Fifty points from Gryffindor." With that, he turned abruptly and walked to the other side of the classroom. Predictably, every Gryffindor in the room was glaring murderously at Snape, while every Slytherin looked like they were about to burst out laughing.
Harry looked carefully at the instructions that Snape had written on the board, trying to figure out why he had added essence of raspberry seeds. The compound wasn't anywhere on the board. Suddenly, he remembered, and he spoke.
"Professor, we added it because we accidentally added too much dragon's liver, and the raspberry seeds neutralized the reaction, allowing the potion to return to its proper color and strength," he spoke, still stirring his cauldron. Snape whipped his head around and glared at the boy.
"Twenty points for not following directions, and fifteen points for speaking out of turn. Honestly, Potter, you obviously believe that the rules of decorum apply to everyone but yourself. How nice that must be, to be such a celebrity that you can merely ignore societal rules," Snape scolded. When Harry looked down at his feet, eyes clouded with shame, Snape became confused. He waited for a few seconds, certain that the boy would pull some sort of retort from his arsenal. When it didn't come, Snape simply walked back to his desk and sat there for the rest of the lesson.
Since the beginning of the lesson, Snape had noticed some marked changes in the boy who lived. Namely, he noticed that the boy was much quieter. Now, Snape wasn't one to complain, because he found the boy's silence to be a godsend. It was, however, peculiar and out of character. Also, the boy was more withdrawn. He barely noticed when the other Gryffindors made jokes, hardly acknowledged Ron's impersonation of McGonagall. Most noticeably, though, was Potter's appearance. The boy had always been scrawny, but this year, he was nearly skeletal. Part of Snape was concerned. The rest of him, however, merely pushed the worry aside, thinking that this dramatic change in weight was probably just another ploy to garner attention from his teachers and peers. Satisfied with this explanation of the emaciated Potter, Professor Snape turned his thoughts to grading a stack of sub-par Hufflepuff essays.
At the end of the lesson, Harry and Ron carefully emptied the contents of their cauldron into two flasks, labeled them, and placed them on the potion master's desk. When Snape said nothing, the pair exited the room quickly, not noticing Snape's eyes on Harry.
Harry groaned as he flopped down on the couch, eyeing the pile of homework he had to do that night. Hermione had already diligently began working on some task, although it didn't look much like homework to Harry. Ron was staring at the fireplace, seemingly enthralled by the dancing flames. Harry knew, though, that he was merely trying to avoid starting on their assignments. Harry sighed, and cracked open a book. He began taking down notes for his essay on animagi. He had just gotten to a paragraph detailing how, exactly, someone's animagus was determined, when Hermione interrupted him.
"Harry, Ron, I've made something for each of you," she said, as she handed them each a booklet. Harry's had a picture of a golden snitch on it, while Ron's had a picture of the Chudley Cannons. Harry stared at it, uncertain as to what it was.
"Come now," she nagged, "aren't you going to open them?" She looked at each of the boys expectantly. Harry opened his, wary of what might lie inside. On the first page was a detailed schedule of that week, with due dates of assignments flashing in bright red. He looked at Hermione, wanting an explanation.
"Well, you two always say that you can't remember when assignments are due, so I've placed a charm on these calendars. As soon as a professor says an assignment and its due date, it appears in your planner." She grinned, proud of herself for having thought of such an ingenious idea. When neither of the boys replied, she continued, "and see, I've scheduled time in for quidditch, for fun, and," she said, looking at Harry, "for Occlumency."
Harry wasn't paying attention, however. He'd began thumbing through the book and had discovered that school assignments weren't the only things appearing in this notebook. Rather, it appeared that everything of import that he wanted to do in a day appeared, whether it be doing a homework assignment or making up a "treatment" for himself. He wasn't sure that this book was such a good thing after all. Nevertheless, as he pocketed it, he thanked Hermione. He found it strange that the booklet was in the same pocket as his special bag.
Snape paced the halls of the school that night, thinking. He did this fairly often. There were some nights that he was unable to fall asleep at all. On those nights, he would wander aimlessly around the school, until he wound up at the astronomy tower. There he would stand, staring into space, and letting his mind wander.
Tonight was different, though. First of all, it was much earlier than usual. Secondly, he couldn't shake the image of Potter from his head. He didn't know why. All he could think about were those dark green eyes, lacking any spirit, any fire. He wanted to know what had happened, why Harry was acting the way he was. He never ate; Snape had observed his eating habits in the great hall. Potter seemed to become more withdrawn every day. It was as if he was wearing a mask.
Snape turned to walk down a different hallway. Recently, he had taken to sneaking into the dorm common rooms, to observe the students. Part of him found this interesting, as if the young wizards and witches were unique species to be studied. Generally, he was disappointed by what he saw. Slytherin girls gossiping, Hufflepuff boys arm wrestling and generally being overly nice to one another. Ravenclaw was probably the least interesting of all, because the students there were all so quiet and studious. Once, on a Saturday night last year, Snape had sat in there for three hours and had seen nothing more exciting than a game of wizard's chess. He'd been disappointed. Occasionally, though, he saw something interesting. Last term, for instance, he had crept into the Gryffindor to see Granger and that Weasely boy being…intimate. He shuddered. There was nothing more repulsive than hormonal teenagers. On another occasion, he had seen a heated debate take place between Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zambini concerning the rights of homosexuals in the wizarding world. Today would be different, though. Snape whispered the invisibility spell before he entered the Gryffindor common room. For a moment, he saw nothing. It was a Saturday, which meant that many of the students were probably out using the room of requirement for something unsavory. He admired the décor of the room. The colors were not to his liking, but all of the furniture looked very comfortable. Suddenly, he heard a noise coming from the stairwell. Instinctively, he jumped, and then scolded himself for forgetting that he was invisible.
Not surprisingly, it was Harry Potter who came down the stairs, looking around the room to see if anyone was there. "The boy always did have a penchant for breaking the rules," thought Snape. When he was content to see that no one was there, he dashed back upstairs and returned with an instrument case and a small bag of some sort. Snape was interested to see just how scrawny the boy looked in his pajamas. Apparently, the school uniforms added about fifteen pounds. Smiling to himself, he realized that he'd heard Pansy Parkinson complain of just that not so long ago. Funny to have her proven right for once. He turned his attention back to Harry.
The boy who lived had settled himself down in front of the fireplace, the golden light playing tricks with his hair. He opened the instrument case and removed a battered guitar. Automatically, the boy's hands moved to tune the guitar. Snape watched in wonderment, as he possessed the musical talent of an oyster. The boy began to strum for a while, playing what seemed to be random nonsense. Suddenly, he began to sing. Snape stared in disbelief, as the voice he heard coming from the boy's mouth was clear, strong, and laden with pain.
"There must be some kind of way out of here
Said the joker to the thief
There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief
Business men they drink my wine
Plowmen dig my earth
None of them along the line
Know what any of it's worth
No reason to get excited
The thief he kindly spoke
There are many here among us
Who feel that life is but a joke
But you and I we've been through that
And this is not our place
So let us stop talking falsely now
The hour's getting late
All along the watchtower
Princess kept the view
While all the women came and went
Barefoot servants too
Outside in the cold distance
A wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching
And the wind began to howl
All along the watchtower
All along the watchtower
All along the watchtower."
After the boy ceased singing, he continued to play random tunes for quite a while. Snape was mystified. He had never seen this side of Harry before. He looked so relaxed, so comfortable, so free. It was as if all pretension fell away from him and left him exposed for all to see. Suddenly, it occurred to Snape that he had invaded an extremely private moment. Still, he couldn't bring himself to leave. He found himself captivated by the boy, watching his every move, taking in all of his parts.
Abruptly, the music stopped. Harry sat still for a moment, holding the guitar and staring into the fireplace. He seemed to be deep in thought, which, Snape thought, was probably a rarity for him. The shadows from the flickering flames accented the angles in Harry's face, making him appear even more delicate than usual. "He's unusually beautiful," thought Snape. Then, he caught himself and scolded, "Moron, he's just a student." His eyes detected movement, and he saw Harry put the guitar back in its case. Then, the boy took a small, blue candle out of his bag and lit it. He sat there for a moment, and stared at the candle, as if he was mentally fighting with it. Then, Snape saw him take some substances and place them in a spoon. The boy was soon heating the stuff over the candle. "How strange," Snape thought, having never seen anyone do this before. He waited, along with Harry, to see what the results of this experiment would be. He was horrified when Harry, instead of bottling the makeshift potion, retrieved a syringe from his bag and promptly injected the substance into his arm.
Harry went back to playing the guitar.
Snape hurried to Dumbledore's office, uncertain as to what he had seen, but knowing that he needed to tell the headmaster what the idiot boy had done. He simply couldn't shake the image from his head, the image of Harry Potter, doing something to himself. Finally, Snape reached the end of the darkened hallway and turned into the staircase.
"Jello Jigglers," he muttered. The door promptly opened.
Harry woke up on Sunday morning, feeling very rested. For the first time in a while, he felt truly safe and awake. He sat up in bed and stretched. When he looked around, the room was empty save for himself. "Everyone else must be at breakfast," he thought. He ran a hand through his hair and stepped out of bed. He decided that it was going to be a good day. He could feel it.
As he walked into the common room, a barrage of strange questions immediately greeted him.
"Harry, I think you might be in trouble," said Hermione. "Is there anything you might have done?" She looked at Harry, waiting for him to answer. Before he could, though, Ron ran over and began chattering.
"It's rubbish, I tell you, rubbish. At breakfast this morning, Dumbledore and Snape wanted to talk to us. They asked us if you'd been behaving weird and such. It's just a mad attempt to slander you. Snape's just out to get you," he exclaimed. He then looked at Harry expectantly. For the first time in a while, he looked concerned for his slender friend.
"It is rubbish, isn't it Harry," he asked, worriedly. "I mean, they were saying some awful things earlier, and I thought it was just Snape trying to be mean."
"But Harry," Hermione piped in, "we need you to tell us. Tell us anything that they could be talking about, anything that they think you could be doing that could possibly be reprehensible." The two were met with silence as Harry's mind began to race.
What could Snape have figured out? Harry shook his head and mumbled something that sounded like "fizzing whizbee bacon." With that articulate response, he sat down on the sofa by the fireplace to think. Could it be possible that Snape had figured out that the Durselys were up to no good? Probably not, he decided. If that were the case, Harry hoped he wouldn't be in trouble. He couldn't remember if he had missed any homework. Hermione's enchanted book yelled at him whenever he did, though, so he probably hadn't. Either that or he had, since he didn't want to open the blasted thing. He studied the patterns in the rug and thought some more. What could he possibly get in trouble for?
Suddenly, it hit him. His treatments. Someone, somehow, had found out. Of course, that someone had been Snape. Harry sighed. He would need to begin operation cover-it-up, of course. Luckily, living with the Durselys for eleven years had made him quite adept at hiding things. With that, he got up and walked over to Hermione and Ron.
"Shucks, guys," he said, grinning, "I can't think of anything I could've done" As he finished the statement, he saw the doubtful looks on their faces and thought, "Dammit, that was too saccharin."
"If you're sure, Harry," Hermione replied. "If there is anything, though, you really ought to tell us. We could help you."
"Believe me, guys, if there was something, you'd be the first to know." He tried to smile reassuringly. Somehow, he had to dash up to his room and find a good hiding spot for his bag. Currently, it was sitting under his pillow. Just as he was about to head upstairs to do just that, McGonagall and Snape walked through the door.
"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said, crisply, "You're to come with us."
Before Harry could attempt to buy some time, Snape grabbed him by the arm and said, "You are to come with us. Now." With that, the pair escorted Harry out of the common room and into Dumbledore's office. Harry tried to think of a way to run, but he simply couldn't. Even if he could break away from Snape, which he couldn't, he wouldn't be able to run very far before he was caught again. Instead, he began to panic. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what they were going to do with him, do to him. "What if," he thought, "they send me back to the Durselys? What if they decide that they don't want me here anymore?" Frantically, he began struggling in Snape's grasp, trying to get away.
"It would behoove you," Snape scolded coldly, "not to struggle. I have been authorized to use force." At those words, Harry looked up at Snape with apprehension in his eyes.
"Those beautiful eyes," thought Snape. "If only I could do something to alleviate his fear." He shook his head and chastised himself, thinking, "Fool, he's just a stupid boy who's arrogant to try moronic things to get attention." He continued to drag the boy along the hallway, noticing his increasing panic. Part of the potions master wanted to chuckle, for it was quite entertaining to see the young Potter get his comeuppance. Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by a feeble attempt on Harry's part to hit him. Instinctively, Snape slapped the boy, and then thought better of ever doing that again when he saw the look on his face. It was a look of complete fear and helplessness. The boy immediately quit struggling. "Obviously," Snape pondered, "he's experienced that before."
Before Snape could consider the ramifications of that thought further, the trio arrived at Dumbledore's office. With an utterance of "Pudding Pops," the three found themselves welcome into the office.
Harry had, of course, been in here before. At one time, he had even found the room comforting. So many things had happened to change that. Dumbledore had lied to him, Sirius had died. The boy who lived found his eyes wandering about the office, taking in the portraits of every headmaster in Hogwarts history. It was strange, he thought, that the portraits were somehow able to keep on living. The office was cluttered with the belongings of Dumbledore, who apparently kept his every belonging here. Harry was afraid to actually look at anyone in the office, although he knew they were all looking at him. Instead, he chose to study the titles gracing the shelves of Dumbledore's extensive library. The volumes of arcane magic were far more interesting than anything else in this room. As he looked at the books, his mind raced. "How," he wondered, "had they figured anything out?" He'd used all of the proper precautions. He wore long-sleeved shirts to cover the track marks. He was careful to keep his supplies hidden at all times.
"While I'm sure you have all day to gaze at books in wonderment, Mr. Potter," sneered Snape, "some of us have responsibilities to tend to." Harry looked up, fear filling his eyes. He was in trouble.
"Yes, Harry, it seems that we have some questions regarding your recent behavior," spoke Dumbledore. "An anonymous person claims to have seen you doing something," he paused to retrieve something from his desk "with this." Dumbledore pulled from hiding Harry's secret bag, and emptied its contents on the table.
"But…but…that's not mine," Harry stuttered.
"We are quite sure that it is, Potter," said Snape. "Now, if you'll kindly tell us why you chose to act the part of an idiot and do this to yourself, we'd all appreciate it. It might even make your expulsion more expedient."
It was then that Harry truly began to panic. Absolute terror coursed through his veins. Expulsion.
"Honest, I was just keeping it for someone," he lied.
"Harry," Dumbledore spoke sadly, "we know it's yours. Furthermore, we have strict rules concerning this sort of thing at this school. I'm afraid we have no choice but to send you home."
"No," Harry cried, "you can't…please…I'll do anything…just please don't make me go home."
"I'm afraid we have no choice. While it is possible that the Ministry will overturn our decision, it is not possible for you to stay here," spoke McGonagall. "You will leave tomorrow."
Harry didn't hear anything. He didn't hear his feet hitting the stairs as he ran, didn't hear the gaggle of girls that he nearly crashed into, and didn't hear the wonderment in all of the voices commenting as he passed. Eventually, someone stopped him in his flight and he crumpled to the floor. He continued sobbing, uncertain of everything. The only safe place he knew was being taken away from him. Didn't they understand? He needed the "treatments." He wouldn't use them otherwise. It kept him from thinking, kept him sane, kept him from remembering.
He didn't want to remember. The only thing he had ever wanted was to forget. He had found that.
Snape was to escort the sullen boy back to his home and hand him off to the Dursleys, who were, he was certain, doting guardians. This was not a task that he savored. It meant tolerating the boy's malaise. Luckily, the boy decided to become even more withdrawn than usual. Part of Snape knew that he ought to be worried, but the greater part of his being didn't care. His duty was to deliver the boy. He was no guidance counselor.
The pair traveled in silence, using oddly shaped portkeys in Hogsmeade. They reached Number 4 Privet Drive with few events. As Snape expected, the house was immaculate. Every blade of grass looked as if it had been placed there painstakingly by hand. The windows were glitteringly clean. There were warm lights shining in the windows, giving the place a safe feeling. It seemed a shame to unleash this unruly boy upon this place. "He might destroy it," thought Snape. He practically dragged the despondent boy up the walkway and rung the bell. After a few seconds passed, a portly gentleman holding a carafe of wine answered the door. Upon seeing Harry, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Before he could speak, Snape ruptured the silence.
"I thought it would interest you, sir, to know that this boy is not to return to school." Snape pushed Harry forward, nearly forcing him through the doorway. Grudgingly, the large man stepped aside to let him pass.
"All of the details are in this letter," continued Snape, handing the man a letter from Dumbledore. "Any questions can be addressed directly to him. Good day, sir." Without another word, Snape turned on his heel and walked down the path, his cape billowing ominously behind him. He hoped to never see the boy again.
It had begun the moment his uncle slammed the door. Harry stood huddled in the corner and watched as his uncle's face became contorted in rage. Without a second glance, he tore the letter Snape had handed him to shreds. Then, he walked over to Harry's corner and glared down at the boy. Standing there, staring up at his uncle's face in fear, Harry realized that it didn't matter if he ever got back into Hogwarts, because he might not live to see that possibility. Just a day ago, he had been living nearly fancy free at school, attending lessons, eating with friends, and fretting over homework assignments. He had been safe. Now, however, he was in peril, and was powerless against everyone. He quaked in fear.
"So," sputtered Vernon, "you thought you'd just drop by, then, hmm? Well, you'll pay for this inconvenience. We just got this house straightened up, and here you are, ready to destroy it again. I'll have you know," he said, throwing a punch at Harry's stomach, "that we are not excited to have you here." Harry received another cuff, this time to the face. "That said, I'm sure we'll make do with your presence."
That said, Vernon grabbed Harry by his arms and pulled him away from the wall. Had Harry not been terrified, he might have realized how odd this would look to an outsider, to see a frightened boy being beaten in a well decorated parlor.
"Your shirt," Vernon began, taking off his belt, "comes off." Quickly, Harry moved to comply, knowing that to do otherwise would be foolish, and only result in further pain. Without being asked, he stood with his face against the wall, back exposed. He knew what was coming. Suddenly, Harry heard the familiar whistle of a belt flying through air. He heard the terrifying crack that leather makes just before it hits the skin, yet he was somehow surprised when it finally struck him. He yelped in surprise, trying to hold back tears as his uncle lay into him. Vernon was muttering something, but Harry didn't care. At this point, when he knew that he would never be happy again, he cared little about what the bastard said. The only desire that Harry had was to shorten the punishments as much as possible.
Abruptly, the beating stopped, leaving Harry wondering, apprehensively, what would come next. He got his answer presently, when he was thrown down upon the sofa. Had it been any other occasion, he might have been happy to lay on the soft, velveteen fabric. Now, however, all he could hope for is that the fabric would somehow soften what was to come. He felt his uncle undo his pants, pulling them off and throwing them onto the floor.
"Having you home won't be all bad," said Vernon, menacingly. "I have missed our little encounters." He moved to remove his pants. "Now, you'll be good during this or else you'll get some extra punishment. Remember, boy, this is nothing more than you deserve." With that statement, Vernon spread the boy's legs and pushed into him. Harry couldn't help but scream, writhing in agony from the pain. Vernon punched the boy in the kidneys, but did not reprimand him for his outburst. He liked it when the boy screamed. It made him feel in control. Again and again, he plunged into the boy, causing one outburst after another until he was sated.
Nearly as soon as it had begun, it was over, and Harry was thrown unceremoniously into his cupboard, the door locked. The boy who lived, sat, rubbing his sore body, and looked around his tiny abode. Everything looked just as it had when he had left for school. His pitiful poetry and artwork still adorned the walls. The lump of linens he called a bed were present and accounted for. His stomach sank, as he realized that this was his home forever. He brightened a little, however, when he realized that since his cupboard had remained untouched during his absence, there might be some heroin stashed somewhere. With that thought fueling his movements, giving him energy, he tore through his pitiful piles of belongings. He emerged triumphant, finding a bag identical to the one that Dumbledore had somehow procured.
Leaning against the wall, Harry felt relief swim over him. He might have to spend eternity in the cupboard, but at least he could be high during it.
Snape felt a strange emptiness as he stared out into the seemingly vacant eyes of his afternoon potions class. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, not that he'd want to, but something seemed wrong. He watched the students working on their potions, and felt as if the class was incomplete. True, Granger was about, bushy haired as ever, and working diligently to be the brightest student in the class. Weasely was present as well, burning things here and breaking flasks there. He had gone through more equipment in one day than he had all last term. Furthermore, Granger and Weasely kept bickering like an old married couple, having been paired together after the departure of Potter. Their bickering upset the flow of the class. Furthermore, their voices reverberating off of the stone walls of the dungeon gave Snape a headache. Sighing, he rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate some of the tension. He gave up, though, after seeing Neville attempt to boil iron. Instead, he began to pace eerily around the class, glowering over the shoulders of unsuspecting students occasionally, just to give them the willies. He caused Crabbe to drop a flask; soon after, Seamus melted a cauldron he was using. Snape was pleased. He had caused two accidents in less than a minute.
He missed Harry. No, that couldn't be it. That was a ridiculous, preposterous thought. The school had never been so peaceful, never been so productive, never been so…bloody boring. None of the other students fascinated Snape the way that Harry did. There was something about the way the boy moved, something about the way he talked that seemed so very eternally childlike. It was as if he'd never fully grown up. He talked in a small voice, flinched when anyone startled him, and nearly panicked when anyone male touched him. He was quite intelligent, and yet seemed to be ignorant of some basic life skills, such as self-care. He did not seem to be aware of needing to eat, for instance. Actually, now that Snape thought about it, the boy had always acted peculiar. It was strange, was it not, that he could not seem to be comfortable around men, that loud noises startled him? Had Potter been any other student, Snape probably would have noticed the strange behaviors. He was quite at detecting abnormalities in humans, and Potter's actions went beyond normal shyness.
It frustrated Snape to have to admit that he might care. Abruptly, he dismissed the class. He had some thinking to do.
He didn't know what day it was. Frankly, he didn't care. Get up, clean house, be picked on by Petunia, serve as Dudley's human punching bag, serve as Vernon's human punching bag, get raped, and then be thrown in the cupboard until the next morning. Rinse, repeat. Really, the only thing Harry cared about anymore was being able to sneak out of the house, late at night, to acquire more drugs. He'd gotten to a point where he would do anything to get a fix. Steal something, sure, why not? Maybe he'd get caught and be sent to jail. Unfortunately, Harry was too adept a thief for that. Suck some guy off? Sure. It's not like he hadn't done it before. Vernon was his uncle, after all.
That particular night had been interesting. He'd wound up stealing some cash off a street vendor, paying off the dealer, and then sitting in the park near his house, making sure that he was high as a kite before he went back. Currently, he was sitting on a swing, staring at the stars. The moonlight bathed his face in cool, white light. Like a grade school child, his feet scraped the gravel beneath them.
He didn't even know why he went back. Probably because no matter where he went, Vernon would be able to find him. Besides, where would he go? Harry felt alone in the world, as if no one cared for him. Sometimes he thought about leaving one night and never coming back. He'd never gotten the courage, mainly because he was afraid. Part of him still wanted a family that loved him. Well, he'd lost that as a baby, and he'd gotten the Durselys. Sure, they weren't the best family, but they might love him, someday. If he was the best nephew, if he did everything that Vernon and Petunia demanded, then maybe one day, they would love him.
Love. He didn't even know the meaning of the word. Dumbledore said that love had saved him once, but he suspected that was just an old man's way of saying that no one really knew what had happened. Love couldn't possibly save anything. It was intangible, distributed unequally, and difficult to keep, if you ever got it. He only knew that he wanted it, more than ever. He wanted to be loved for being himself. He didn't want to be a punching bag, a good fuck, or Harry Potter, the boy who lived. He wanted to be loved because he was Harry. Nothing more. He smiled wryly as it occurred to him that he wouldn't know love if it hit him with a ten-foot pole.
The boy who lived stood up unsteadily and began walking back to the Durselys. He quested for their love, but in the meantime, he was going to cook up some good heroin and read some Walt Whitman.
Sometimes, in his dreams, he saw a man in black.
Sleep did not come easily to Severus Snape. His dreams were discontinuous, disturbing, and too close to reality to allow him any comfort. He often found himself laying awake at night, staring at imagined shapes on the ceiling. On this particular night, he had just awoken from a dream featuring a thin, black haired individual. While he did not know who it was, they seemed familiar. The boy was a recurring character in his dreams. He didn't know who the boy was supposed to represent, what his presence was supposed to mean. He only knew that there was something hauntingly familiar about him. He projected a certain ethereal shyness and seemed dangerously fragile. Severus' every thought while awake had recently been occupied with this character. While he didn't generally hold stock in the arts of divination, he did have the inkling that this dream had some sort of deeper meaning. He had even gone so far as to tell Dumbledore about the dreams, saying that he could hardly concentrate on his job, saying that he woke up nearly every night, confused by the dreams. Dumbledore had merely smiled knowingly and told him that all would be revealed in due time.
"Cursed old man," thought Snape. He rolled over in bed, determined to get some sleep tonight. He had to put up with loads of incompetent students taking exams tomorrow, and would need all the sleep he could get. As he slipped back into unconsciousness, he could have sworn that he heard a small voice begging for help, praying for someone, anyone to love him.
In his dreams, he wandered through darkened streets, slick with rain. At first, the neighborhood looked ominous, unfamiliar. All of the houses looked similar, as if cast into a mold and then placed along the streets. Each flower was purposefully placed, every fence delicately painted white, every blade of grass perfect. The scenery was familiar to him, though he didn't know why. His meanderings led him to a house with lights in the windows. It was the sort of house that appeared in magazines, the sort of house that anyone would want to call home. Snape could imagine the mirth that he would witness inside. A happy family sitting down to dinner, playing board games, eating dessert. The house was full of love, full of everything Snape had lacked as a child, full of everything he had desired. He looked at the house wistfully, and nearly continued his walk. It was then that he felt the sudden need to go into the house. It was irrational, but he thought that there was something to see there.
Up the walkway he went, noticing the precisely placed cobble stones. The door opened for him readily, and why not? He was a wizard, was he not? Not hesitating, he entered the house. The foyer exuded a warm glow, much as he expected. The rug was rich between his bare feet. To his right was a grandfather clock, just about to chime, to his left, a coat rack. The walls were adorned with pictures of a family, all smiling, all doing well. He seethed with envy, recalling briefly his childhood. Shaking his head, he wandered until he saw a large, dining room table. About it sat the three people he'd seen in the photographs, eating and conversing as if they hadn't a problem in the world. Convinced that there was nothing to see there, he turned around and entered the hallway. To his left was a staircase. As he walked, he hardly noticed a small cupboard with its door ajar. For some reason, the cupboard caught his attention.
"It's not like I haven't spent my life in a cupboard under the stairs." Where had he heard such a phrase? It seemed so familiar. He moved to open the cupboard door, exposing his ears to a sound that he was not expecting. Within the cupboard was someone, something, sobbing.
It was then that Snape woke up. With a start, he heard his alarm charm, telling him that it was time to get up, time to teach ignorant gits. Grumbling, he dragged himself out of bed, knowing that he'd be preoccupied with the dream for the rest of the day. He knew, just knew, that within that cupboard had lain his mysterious, black haired boy.
Snape was practically useless for the rest of the day. He cursed at first years, broke glassware, nearly turned Malfoy into a frog, and spilled polyjuice potion on the Granger girl. And that was before lunchtime. By the end of the day, he'd alienated nearly all of the students, not that this was much of a change. Furthermore, most of his colleagues were more concerned for his sanity than usual. He stormed about the school in a black, distracted cloud, wanting nothing more than to get back to his quarters and decide what, exactly, he was going to do.
After what seemed like an eternity, he was able to return to his quarters. He flopped down on his leather couch, much in the way that a teenage boy would, and began to stare at the flames dancing in the fireplace. There had to be, he thought, a way to figure out what the blasted dreams meant. For some ungodly reason, he cared, and the sooner he solved the mystery, the sooner he could stop. He was sick of caring about someone, especially since it was a person who may or may not exist.
It dawned on him suddenly. He could use a modification on a Floo Powder spell to figure out if the house really existed. If it did, well, he'd be transported there, and could figure out what was in the cupboard under the stairs. If it didn't, well, he'd just have to rig the spell to take him to somewhere safe, like Hogsmeade. He was excited, suddenly, having figured out a way to solve the mystery. Rousing himself, he began gathering supplies to cast the spell. He would need Floo Powder, of course, and some unicorn's hair, as well as some snake's blood. Once he acquired all of the supplies, he mused over how to tell the spell where to take him. He had no idea where this place was. All he had was an image of a street with cookie cutter houses lining it. That could easily be any street in England, or the world, for that matter. He thought hard on the dream, trying to pinpoint the most exact location. Finally, he settled on using the image of the cupboard under the stairs. He would imagine the cupboard under the stairs and the mysterious boy that it contained.
Satisfied with this strategy, he threw some of the mixture into the fireplace and took his place in the flames. He closed his eyes, and imagined the scene from his dream in as much detail as he could muster. The stairs were to his left, and made of a warm colored wood. There was a fireplace straight ahead of him. Suddenly, he felt a strange sensation about his middle, as if he were being pulled offstage by a cane. He knew he was going somewhere. He only hoped that it was somewhere real.
After a while, the sensation around his middle ceased, and he warily cracked open an eyelid. He found himself in a dark room. After a moment, his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he realized that it had worked. He was standing in the great stone fireplace in the mystery house. Excited, he stepped out onto the hearth and looked around. Except for the lack of light, everything was just as it had appeared in the dream. The photos on the wall featured three happy individuals. The rug was rich and soft looking. Straight ahead, to his right, was a staircase, made of honey colored wood. Rather uncharacteristically, Snape began to feel afraid. He wasn't sure what he would find here, wasn't sure that his mystery boy even existed. Casting an invisibility spell, he stepped off the hearth and began to wander the house. Everything looked idyllic, and yet he could tell that something was amiss. He headed towards the staircase, towards the door to the cupboard under the stairs. Unlike the cupboard in his dream, this one was locked. This surprised him somewhat. Nevertheless, he cast a spell to open it. It was dark in the cupboard too.
"Lumos," he whispered.
The darkness faded away slowly, his wand emitting a warm, glowing light. His eyes explored the cupboard eagerly, taking in every detail. He noticed the tattered papers on the walls, the piles of rags on the floor. Carefully, he stepped into the cupboard. It was larger than he had thought it would be, as it stretched the entire length of the stairs.
Snape examined the walls of the cupboard carefully, seeing that the papers on the wall contained poems, stories clipped from the newspapers, and drawings done by a small child. He looked away from the walls and examined the contents of the cupboard. He noticed that what he had dismissed as a mound of rags appeared to have a human form to it. Nearly shaking, Snape walked over to the lump, careful not to disturb anything. Hesitantly, he reached down and removed a ratty sheet. He gasped.
Under the sheet lay a battered boy with black hair. He was far too thin, he was sleeping, and he wasn't just some mysterious boy. He was Harry Potter. Anger surged through Snape as he looked upon the boy. Clearly, he was being mistreated. Bruises covered his body. He stank as if he'd not washed in many days. "I can fix that," thought Snape. He whispered a cleansing spell and the stench vacated the small room. Unable to contain himself, Snape cast a spell permitting him to view the last forty eight hours of the boy's life.
The horror that flashed before his eyes was unspeakable. Beatings had been followed by rapes, rapes followed by more beatings. The boy had scrounged around for drugs, trying to make his life more bearable. He had begged for mercy, begged for love, and been tortured by his family. Visions of the boy serving the family breakfast flashed before his eyes. He saw the aunt throwing out perfectly good food, saw the boy get smacked when he attempted to sneak some from the garbage. By the end of it, Snape was seething with rage. Before he could think, he had grabbed the boy into his arms and ran out of the wretched house. As soon as he reached the end of the walkway, he apparated into Hogsmeade, careful to not wake the boy. Then, Snape ran as fast as he could to Hogwarts.
Clean, white light filtered into his consciousness. He could feel warmth emanating from somewhere. Wiggling, he adjusted his position, feeling the soft cocoon of blankets that covered his form. Groggily, the boy who lived opened his eyes to see fire dancing in the hearth. He had no idea where he was.
Terrified, Harry sat up, only to feel a severe pain course through his body. Clutching his chest, he collapsed into the pile of blankets, struggling to breathe. "Where am I," he wondered, "and what happened to my cupboard?" His deep green eyes opened again, and he began to look around the room. The colors were soft and muted. There were no windows. "What kind of house doesn't have windows," he thought. Staring ahead, he noticed a small table in front of him. On it were piles of books, newspapers, and his glasses. Desperate to see the details of his surroundings, Harry reached for his glasses. Gasping in pain, he ceased trying. Instead he lay there, wondering how he had come to be in this completely unknown place. The last thing he remembered was being thrown into the cupboard after one of his punishments.
Suddenly, Harry was snapped out of his thoughts by a sound of movement coming from somewhere in the room. He listened, panicking as the steps seemed to come closer to him. Frightened, he tried to make himself as small as possible, knowing that if he tried to run away, he wouldn't make it.
"I see," a familiar voice said, "that you've finally decided to join the living." A hand held out his glasses. Gingerly, Harry reached out to grab them. When he put them on, his fears were confirmed. The mysterious man was none other than Snape.
"Why am I…I mean…what happened…" asked Harry in a small, confused voice.
"Circumstances did not permit you to be with your relatives any longer," replied Snape.
"But I…where…how…" he stuttered.
"Things being things, you have been readmitted to Hogwarts." Harry's heart soared. "That is," Snape continued, "contingent on your behavior. There are certain activities that you are no longer permitted to engage in." As abruptly as it had risen, Harry's heart fell into a heavy lump in his stomach. There was no way.
"I can't just…stop, though, can I," asked Harry, trembling.
"Fool boy," Snape snapped. Harry flinched, and seemed to curl in upon himself. "Obviously," he proceeded, "you are not expected to be ready to attend classes tomorrow. However, you have gotten lucky, in that the winter holidays are among us." When Harry didn't reply, Snape walked closer to him, and tried to look him in the eye. Harry averted his gaze until he was staring at his stomach.
"Harry," the professor spoke, "you can trust me. I intend to help you." His heart nearly broke when he saw how fast Harry responded to any kindness. The boy looked up into his eyes, full of hope.
"There are rules, though," said Snape. "For instance, you must be open with me. In order for me to help you heal, I need to know what hurts." Nervously, Harry nodded. "Also, I need you to share your emotions with me. I believe that you did what you did because you needed to cope somehow. However, you must learn to cope without any sort of…assistance of that type. Agreed?"
The boy nodded slowly, his eyes wide with fear. Nothing that Snape had said had sounded like much of a choice to him. He kept his eyes on the professor, worried that something might happen.
"Right, then, Harry, drink this," said Snape, handing him a potion. When Harry hesitated, he continued, "it's not poison, if that's what you're thinking. It'll help you relax and sleep while I try to figure out the most effective way of dealing with your…issues." Harry took the bottle and drank. The face he made when the bitter potion touched his tongue made Snape smile. Expectantly, the boy looked at him. Snape merely returned the gaze, waiting for the potion to take effect. He watched as Harry became relaxed, as his eyes began to flutter. The boy's breathing grew slow and regular, and soon, he was asleep. Snape covered him up with a blanket.
Part of Snape felt complete, just sitting here, watching the black haired boy sleep. He knew, though, that this wouldn't help anything. He had to figure out a way to help Harry cope with his problems on his own.
When Harry awoke, the first thing he noticed was the smell of bacon. Someone was frying bacon. He opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings. At first, he forgot where he was, but then he remembered that wherever he was, he was with Snape. Slowly, he sat up and peeked over the sofa to see a strange site.
Snape was whistling. And cooking. And wearing an apron. Had Harry not been so weak, he would have burst into an uncontrollable laughing fit. As it was, he felt a grin spread across his face. He never thought he'd see his surly potions teacher cooking. He became startled, however, when Snape turned his head to check on him.
"I've made some food, if you're hungry." Snape continued to cook, now moving on to frying eggs and pancakes at the same time. Harry's eyes grew as wide as saucers. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen this much food and been permitted to eat it. When he made no effort to move from the sofa, Snape looked over again and said, "well, you'll have to get up to eat, Harry, I'm not a house elf." Hurriedly, Harry got up and nearly ran to the table. When he got there, he began to regret it. Suddenly, he felt faint and dizzy.
"I told you to come get food, Harry, not to exhaust yourself doing so," Snape admonished, placing a plate full of food in front of him. The potions master watched in awe as the boy began to eat, chewing slowly and savoring each bite. Snape hadn't been sure how much food to make. He knew that most teenage boys could eat a house if they were permitted to; however, he also knew that Harry had been starved for quite a while. He hoped the boy would have the sense to stop eating before he made himself sick.
Apparently, however, moderation was not a word that Harry was familiar with. Snape supposed that it was due to the lack of proper nourishment that he ate like he would never see food again. Finally, after Harry was about to start on more food, Snape took his plate away from him and said, "You'll make yourself sick if you keep eating like that." Harry merely nodded, and watched Snape move around the kitchen.
Snape rather liked his kitchen. It was clean, it was rather large, and it allowed him a certain autonomy. His thoughts and work were interrupted by a very small voice.
"Sir," said Harry, looking nervous, "where is your um…" he stopped talking.
"Where is my what, Harry," asked Snape.
"Your…um…bathroom." He blushed.
Resisting the urge to laugh, Snape directed the boy to the restroom and left him there. It made him sad that the boy was so apprehensive about asking simple questions. It wasn't as if he could have known where the bathroom was. He had to ask. Snape dried the last dish and sat down on a chair to read. After ten minutes, he became worried, and went to check on the boy.
He found that the bathroom door was closed. He leaned against it and could hear nothing on the other side. He stood there for a moment, contemplating opening the door, but not wanting to disturb Harry. Hesitantly, he knocked. There was no answer. Snape had no choice but to open the door.
Harry was curled up in a ball, crying. The room smelled of bile, and Snape realized that the youth had probably vomited. He walked into the room, cast a cleaning spell, and looked at Harry.
"I…I'm sorry," the boy stuttered.
"Why?"
"Because I got sick. I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have fed me."
Snape was stunned. Obviously, Harry had eaten too much and gotten ill. It was not uncommon amongst those who experienced malnutrition. He shook his head sadly and moved to put his hand on the boy's shoulder. Harry flinched abruptly.
"Please…no…I'm sorry…please don't hurt me," Harry begged.
"Harry," Snape whispered, "no one's going to hurt you." The boy began to rock back and forth, shielding his head with his hands.
"I'm bad, I know. I didn't mean to." He seemed to be delirious now.
The potions master stared in disbelief, seething with anger on the inside. He wanted to hurt whoever had done this to this boy. Harry might be sixteen, but part of him acted like a scared child. He felt useless, like there was nothing he could do to help the boy. Abruptly, he reached down and scooped him up in his arms and walked to the living room sofa. Harry squirmed initially, scared that he would get hurt. Once they were settled on the sofa, Snape began to stroke the boy's head and rub his back.
"It's ok, Harry," he spoke soothingly, "no one here is going to hurt you. You aren't bad. It's ok. You're at Hogwarts. You aren't at home. No one is mad at you for getting sick after breakfast. It happens. You'll just eat later, but we'll make sure you don't eat so much." After talking to the boy for a few minutes, Snape noticed that he had stopped struggling and instead had snuggled into his arms. He had not, however, ceased crying.
"Harry, I need you to talk to me, to tell me what's going on inside your head. It'll help." He continued to stroke the hair of the boy who lived, listening to his ragged breathing, internally hating the blasted muggles that had been Harry's guardians. A whimpering voice broke the silence.
"I need it," the little voice said.
"Need what?"
"My bag."
"You don't need that, Harry," soothed Snape.
"I think I do," cried the boy.
"Why do you need it?"
"It keeps me from remembering," he cried softly.
"Oh, Harry," said Snape, petting the black haired boy, "I know it hurts to remember, but you can't go on hiding from your past this way. It's not healthy; it's not safe. You could accidentally give yourself too much and die, or you could contract some sort of disease. It's just not safe."
"But it hurts to remember," muttered Harry.
"What do you remember," asked Snape. He wondered if maybe Harry would open up to him.
"And I feel sick without it," the boy said, evading his question.
"How do you feel," asked Snape, suddenly worried about withdrawal symptoms.
"My head hurts. I can't eat." Internally, Snape laughed at that one. The boy was hardly what one would call well fed. "And my heart races, I get scared." Without comment, Snape continued to pet the boy, wondering if there was anything that he could do to ease the physical symptoms of withdrawal. He could probably give Harry potions for the headaches, or even give him a strong sleeping draught to get him through the worst of it. Part of him knew, though, that he shouldn't. The boy needed to experience withdrawals, so that he wouldn't be tempted to use any sort of intoxicant again. He needed to be conscious so that Snape could help him work through his fears, his pain.
The older man looked down at the mess of a boy in his arms and sighed. What the boy needed was love.
Later that night, Snape found himself pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. He had weakened in his resolve and given Harry a weak sleeping draught. The boy had been exhausted, trying valiantly to hold his head upright, as if he might miss something if he fell asleep. Snape had been able to coax the boy to eat a small bowl of soup, which he had immediately expelled. The older man had settled with getting him to eat a few crackers, which he did not lose.
He flopped down on a chair and sighed. His eyes rested on the sleeping Harry Potter laying on his couch. Many thoughts raced through his head. He felt strangely attached to the boy, and he couldn't figure out why. Furthermore, he felt the need to take out some revenge upon the boy's guardians. He couldn't tell if this impulse came from his mixed feelings concerning Harry or if he was merely acting the way he would with any child. He decided that it was probably just anger on behalf of his student, and that he'd react similarly regardless of who that student was.
"At least," he thought, "that's what I'm going to tell myself."
His dreams that night were disjointed, as usual. They did, however, have one dramatic difference. Harry Potter, the boy who lived, was present in nearly every vignette. Sometimes the boy laughed, sometimes he cried. In every scene, though, he needed Severus, needed his love, his help, his guidance. He wasn't sure he could handle that. In his dreams, he was free to care for the boy, converse with him. In life, there were expectations to be met, ideas and personas to be upheld. While in dreams, Snape could dote upon Harry Potter, in life, such an idea was forbidden. Even if he'd wanted to, he couldn't love the boy. In his dream, though, Harry reached out for Snape's hand. Snape pulled him into his arms, containing him in a strong embrace. The look of love shone in Harry's emerald eyes. He bent down to kiss the boy.
Then he woke up. Something seemed amiss, though he didn't know what. With an air of urgency, he crawled out of his soft, warm bed and threw on a dressing gown. Quickly, he walked into the living room, to see Harry curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth. Tears rolled down the boy's face. The room was dark; the only light came from the flames flickering playfully in the fireplace. The orange light made Harry look gorgeous, catching on his hair and warming his skin tone. Snape shook the thoughts out of his head and walked over to the boy. Harry seemed to sense his presence, because he started trembling. He reached down to place a hand on his shoulder.
"Harry," he whispered, "it's me." The boy looked up, eyes red and puffy from crying.
"What's wrong, Harry?" When the boy didn't answer, Snape pulled him into a snug embrace. Suddenly, the boy became full of energy.
"I need it," he cried. "At night the memories come back. You don't understand, or maybe you do, but it's so hard to remember." He crumpled into Snape.
"What do you remember that's so hard," Severus asked.
"There's so much noise, so much. Sometimes, I don't know who I am. Some days, I forget my name. I'm only 'it' or 'boy.' Actually, I'm 'boy' on a good day."
"I know who you are, though," whispered Snape.
"And then there's the pain. I don't understand the pain. I try and try to be good, try to do everything perfectly, and I never get anything." Harry choked out a pitiful sob.
"What does it take to be good, Harry?"
"Perfection. I don't know. Doing everything correctly. Remembering to put the right ingredients in when making dinner. Cleaning the bathrooms properly," he answered.
"What happens if you don't do one of those things properly," asked Snape.
"Then you are stupid, worthless, useless, and no one ought to put up with you," answered Harry, with an eerie speed. Snape allowed that statement to sink into his consciousness for a moment without saying anything. He could recall feeling a similar way at certain times in his life. It seemed that no matter what he had done, he wasn't good enough. It had been horrible.
"What happens, though, Harry," he asked. "Say you forget to do a dish, drop it, even. What happens?"
"Punishments," whispered a sobbing and shaking Harry.
"Well, no one needs to be perfect. I suppose we all got in trouble at some point as a child."
"No, you don't understand," Harry began. "When I did something wrong, I would lose food privileges. I would be thrown into the cupboard, and not let out, not even to…"
"It's ok, Harry," said Snape, sensing an oncoming panic attack. He stroked the boy's back, trying to help him relax. He needed to know that he could talk about these things, needed to know that he could deal with his memories without drugs.
"It's not ok," Harry yelled. "It's my fault, it's all my fault. I did everything wrong, I made them hurt me. I made them do things to me. If I had just been good, if I had just responded to their needs faster."
"It's not your fault, Harry. You couldn't have stopped it," replied Snape.
"But I should have been able to. They never did anything bad to my cousin. He must have done everything right. I just deserved it is all. He never got tied up, never got hit, never got…" his voice trailed off.
After that, the pair just sat. Harry cried, remaining curled up against Snape. Severus stared into the fireplace, wondering if Harry would ever be ok, if he would ever be capable of trusting anyone fully. The parallels between Harry's childhood and his were uncanny. Certainly, Severus hadn't responded to his circumstances in the same way that Harry had. He hadn't turned to drugs. Eventually, Severus had even learned to trust others, though he couldn't recall how long it had taken him to regain that ability. There were some days, of course, that he still didn't trust anyone. He thought everyone was out to get him.
Looking down, Snape realized that the boy had fallen asleep. Rising carefully, he moved to place the boy back on the sofa. As soon as he let go, however, the boy emitted a soft whimper. His eyes fluttered. Severus realized that he probably wouldn't sleep long tonight. As he walked out of the room, he heard a small voice barely whisper a request.
"I…don't…I don't wanna be alone…"
Snape smiled, walked back to the sofa, and looked at Harry. He wasn't sure how to go about this. Two people couldn't very well sleep in the living room. The sofa wasn't big enough for that. Severus certainly didn't want to sleep in his chairs, although they were quite comfortable for an afternoon snooze. Finally, he decided that there was really only one place to sleep. Carefully, he picked up the boy and carried him into his bedroom. Gently, he laid Harry on the large bed and covered him with blankets. Removing his robe, Snape crawled into bed with him, being careful to keep his distance. Harry, however, snuggled right up to Snape like a small kitten. Drowsily, Snape stroked Harry's hair. He wondered what, if anything, this meant. He turned his head to look at the small creature curled up against him and smiled. The boy's face was calm, his eyes closed. There was even a faint smile on his face. He looked positively beautiful and at peace. When Snape was sure the boy was asleep, he leaned over and planted a small kiss on Harry's forehead. Then, he lay back to dream.
He'd never felt safer in his life. It seemed that this morning, everything would somehow be ok. Harry stretched, feeling the warmth and safety that surrounded him. Then he noticed the other body near him.
Abruptly, Harry sat up, forcing his eyes open. Looking around, he noticed a very relaxed Snape lying in bed beside him. He panicked. The room was too small, too dark. He felt trapped, felt like the blankets were holding him down, hoping to keep him restrained for eternity. His eyes fell to Snape, and he felt his heart race. Why was he in a bed with another man? This was the sort of thing that only happened when…
He bolted out of the room, not caring what he knocked over. Finding himself in the living room, he knew he had to do something, anything. It had happened again, he just knew it. There was no other explanation. Frantically, he searched the room for something, anything, to take his mind off of the thoughts running through his heads. Drawers were opened, revealing books that at other times, he would have found fascinating. He encountered blankets, chess sets, others wizarding games, and dishes. Finally, he opened a cupboard to find something that would help. The cupboard contained liquor. Vodka, he knew, not that it mattered. He opened the large bottle and began to pour the foul liquid down his throat. It tasted the way that his aunt's nail polish remover had smelled. Still, the taste didn't stop him. He continued to pour the alcohol down his throat until his mind stopped playing the pictures in his head. Then, he passed out.
Snape awoke from a restful sleep and rolled over, only to find his companion missing. This seemed odd to him. Opening his obsidian eyes, he looked around the room, half expecting to see Harry curled up in a chair. The green chair by the fireplace was empty, though. He felt his feet hit the soft carpet as he began his search for the boy. He walked into the bathroom, wondering if Harry had decided to take a shower. Everything in the bathroom was as he had expected, excepting one thing. It lacked the boy. Cream tile covered the floor, unmarred by anything. He exited, entering the kitchen. Everything there was in its place. He looked over into the living room.
It was a disaster. Chairs were overturned, books strewn about, blankets thrown over lamps and chairs. Every drawer was opened, its contents emptied onto the floor. He walked over, and saw the cause of the mess. Harry was lying on the floor next to the liquor cabinet. In his hand was a bottle of vodka, most of which was gone. His entire body was curled into a ball, as if he was trying to protect himself from something. Snape was horrified. He had no idea how much alcohol the boy had consumed. It had been ages since he had used any of his items in his liquor cabinet. He reached down to check on the boy, and when he was satisfied that he hadn't drowned himself in drink, he took the bottle out of his hand, scooped the boy up, and carried him into the bedroom. Gently, Snape placed him on the bed and covered him with a blanket. Then, he went into the living room to clean up.
Hours later, Snape was sitting in front of a blazing fire, sipping a mug of warm cider. He was worried. Something had happened to cause the boy to find an escape. Luckily, Harry had been unable to find anything more dangerous than alcohol. After today, though, he would be hard pressed to find that. Snape had made a point of ridding his quarters of all possible intoxicants. He wanted the boy to talk through his troubles, not run from them. Running from his troubles was simply no longer an option. The boy would have to face his past, have to realize that he was a worthy person. Aimlessly, Snape began to think of Harry as being his. His to protect, his to care for.
Snape ran a hand through his dark hair and stared into space. It had been ages since he'd felt even the inkling of emotion towards another human being in this manner. Sure, he cared for his colleagues, in a way. He always made certain to send Albus a birthday card, and he never forgot that Minerva liked jolly ranchers. This was different, though. Every inch of his being wanted to help Harry recover. No part of him felt that he had a choice in the matter. It was not possible. He had to care for Harry. Closing his eyes, he began to daydream. He could see the two of them laughing over dinner, playing wizard's chess late into the night. The two of them going on long walks for no particular reason, sitting under trees for hours. He could see Harry's green eyes as he leaned in to kiss him…
Snape jumped. Such thoughts were not appropriate. Harry was his student. Even if he had feelings for the boy, it was wrong to take advantage of the boy. Wanting to forget the happy dream, he got up and began to find tasks for himself around the house.
A train had crashed into his head. That was the only possible explanation for this feeling. His mouth was dry and felt like it was stuffed with cotton, not unlike a new bottle of aspirin. Every part of his body felt as if it were being bombarded with pain. Blasted air molecules, thinking that they could just move around willy nilly, and cause him pain. Vainly, he tried to fall back into unconsciousness, hoping that then the pain would diminish. When this didn't happen, he forced open his eyes. Though the room was dark, the perceived light nearly blinded him. His head swam as he tried to sit up. It was then that he felt his stomach churn. Instinctively, he ran to the bathroom, crashing into the walls.
The potions master could hear someone stumbling around in the house, using the facilities. Putting down the flask he was about to empty into the cauldron, he left his lab and wandered into his living room. He watched as a very disheveled Harry Potter stumbled out of the bathroom. The boy was completely disoriented and seemed to lack all motor skills. Part of Snape found this quite amusing, but he tried to squelch the urge to laugh. The boy's black hair stuck up in every direction. He had circles under his eyes, and it was obvious that he'd forgotten how to dress himself, because his shirt was on backward and inside out. He crashed into the couch.
"Finally awake, are we Harry," spoke an amused Snape. Harry grumbled a response, something involving butterflies or possibly giant squid.
"You should probably eat something," Snape said. "You had quite a night." He went to the kitchen and began to make the boy some toast, thinking that anything more complicated might cause him to be sick again. It was then that Harry began acting strangely, even for Harry. He stumbled over to Snape, fell to the floor, and began to sob.
"Please, sir," he begged, "I need it so bad." Harry's tear filled eyes looked up at Snape. "I'll do anything you want," he continued, "anything."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Snape said.
"Just a little fix," he continued. "That's all I need. It doesn't need to be big. Just enough."
"Unluckily for you, Harry," Snape spoke, "I am quite familiar with the symptoms of withdrawal that occur when someone is denied their intoxicant of choice. It is not my prerogative to provide you with any drugs." Harry sobbed again, and began tugging at Snape's clothes. His hands moved upwards, toying with his waistband. Before Snape could think, the boy had undone his pants and was pulling them down around his ankles. Abruptly, Snape pushed Harry away and pulled his trousers up.
"You obviously do not understand, Harry. I won't give you anything. Nothing you do will persuade me to give you any drugs. You can talk to me. I can listen to your thoughts. I'll even try to help you reason through your problems." He stepped away from the boy before his pants wound up around his ankles again.
Harry scrambled to be next to Snape, hoping that he would be able to convince him to give him drugs. He knew that the man could get him some. He was a potions master, for crying out loud. He probably synthesized drugs.
"Anything, sir," he said, "I'll do anything you want me to." He tried to undo Snape's pants again, convinced that if he could just get the professor off, that maybe he could get some relief. He was again pushed away, but this time, instead of scolding him, Snape picked him up and carried him to the couch. Snape was startled, though, when Harry began to remove his clothes.
"Stop it, Harry," he scolded. "That's not going to get you anywhere. Put your shirt back where it belongs." He wanted to scream, really. The potions master had no idea who had convinced the boy that he could trade his body for drugs, but he wanted to find them and throttle them. Another part of him, though, wanted to take advantage of the boy's willingness to let him have his way with him. It would be so easy, he though, to just take the boy right here. Silently, he scolded himself, and realized that the boy was now curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace, shivering and crying. Again, Snape pulled Harry up onto the couch and held him in his arms, ignoring the boy's pleas for drugs, attempting to soothe him by stroking his back.
They sat like that for three days, moving only when Snape forced the boy to eat and drink.
"December 24th, nearly Christmas," he thought. Normally, his Christmas celebrations were nothing
to write home about. Dinner with Dumbledore, a night spent by the fire, reading. This year,
however, was different. For some reason that was beyond him, he felt compelled to give the boy who
lived a proper Christmas, something that he was sure the boy had never had. He had set out into
Hogsmeade that morning, casting a bonding charm on the boy so that he would know if he had any
trouble. Snape wasn't sure what, exactly, constituted a proper Christmas. He knew that there was a
tree involved, and probably a meal of some sort. Mainly, though, he knew that there were presents.
"What does one get the person who has nothing," he thought. He headed into Zonko's Joke Shop, but
left abruptly. He didn't care what the youth of today found fun or appropriate, he wasn't spending
any of his money on that. He didn't want stinkbombs going off in his quarters. He popped into
Honeyduke's and purchased some candies. Secretly, Snape had always rather enjoyed chocolate frogs.
When he was a child, he used to dream that one day, he would be a good enough wizard to be placed
on a trading card in a chocolate frog candy. He also purchased some Bertie Bott's Every Flavor
Jelly Beans and some pumpkin tarts.
Still, though, he wasn't sure what kind of present to get the boy. Aimlessly, he wandered the
streets, staring at the other wizards out doing their last minute holiday errands. Looking at some
women, he wondered what they got their teenage sons or daughters. He realized the only way to get
the proper thing for Harry would be to ask. "Bloody hell," he thought. Snape hated having to admit
ignorance. He took a deep breath and walked toward the group of chatting ladies. Almost shyly, he
looked at them and began to speak.
"Um," he stuttered, "I was wondering if I might ask a question." Nervously, he looked at the
women. He was expecting them to lash out, to be mad. Instead, they smiled.
"Of course," one woman replied. She was amused by this great, tall man who seemed to be reduced to
a small child at the prospect of asking for help.
"You see," Snape continued, "there's this teenage boy I know and he's never had a proper Christmas
and..."
"Oh, we'll help you," spoke another woman, excitedly. "How old is he?"
"Um..."stammered Severus, "I think he's 16."
"Well then, we'll just take you with us," the first lady spoke, nearly dragging Snape with her as
she entered a store. Bewildered, Snape followed, wondering what these ladies had in mind for him.
Certainly, as he looked around the store, he realized that this was the last sort of place that he
wanted to be. Fluffy bows adorned everything, and the lights were far too bright. There was a
sharp hint of pine in the air. Chattering excitedly, the women pulled him towards what appeared to
be boy's clothing.
"But he...school...uniform..." spoke Snape.
"Nonsense," said one of the women, "what about dates? You think he wants to wear his school duds
on a date?"
Snape wasn't sure that Harry would ever be whole enough to date, but the woman probably had a
point.
"I don't know what size he is," mentioned Snape.
"That's why you buy charmed clothing. It automatically sizes itself to the wearer." She tossed him
a burgundy jumper and a pair of corduroy pants.
"What colors does this boy like," asked another lady.
"I have no idea," said Snape.
"Well, what does he look like?"
"Um...he has hair...it's black. I think his eyes are green," Snape spoke. He felt like an idiot.
Of course he knew what Potter looked like. He just couldn't describe it properly. His mind wanted
to spit out all sorts of things. He wanted to mention that Harry's hair was unruly and poked up in
every direction, that his eyes were the deepest green he'd ever seen. Instead, he was reduced to a
faltering, stammering child.
"Oh, then he'll look good in red," said one lady. She grabbed a few pullover shirts and threw them
to Snape.
"Um...I think perhaps this is enough clothing," said Severus, eyeing the pile of young men's
clothing in his arms.
"Very well. What else does this young man like," inquired one woman.
"He plays guitar," recalled Snape.
"Oh, then I know just the place!" Before Snape could protest, he was pulled out into the street,
clothing still in hand, and directed into the tiniest music shop he'd ever seen. Clearly, his day
was just getting started.
When Harry woke up, he realized that he was alone for the first time in days. There was no Snape
to talk to him, to keep him from doing as he wished. The quarters were his to explore, his to
enjoy. It was strange, he thought, that he didn't want to do anything wrong. He wasn't really in
the mood to get high, not that he could anyway. Snape had seen to that. He didn't really feel like
thinking about the past. There would be enough of that in the future. Instead, Harry sat curled up
on the sofa, staring at nothing, and enjoying the warmth of the room. He realize that he had no
idea what day it was, and smiled. Soon, he knew, he would have to return to school, but Snape
would probably mention that. Eyes closed, he began to daydream.
He saw Snape. For some reason, the potions master had taken a prominent spot in his dreams and
daydreams. He couldn't figure out why. In the dream world in Harry's head, Snape was not "sir" or
"professor," but "Severus" or "Sev." He did not scowl. Instead, the older man laughed, enjoyed
spending time with Harry, reveled in life. There was something there, Harry knew, but he didn't
know what. He knew that he wanted something, but there were no words for what he desired. He just
knew that when he saw the potions master in his dreams that he was left longing for something. At
the same time, he feel terrified, because of the ambiguity and novelty of it all.
"Maybe," he thought, "I want Snape as a family member." Running his hands through his hair, he
realized that he didn't know what the duties or traits of family member were. Turning his
attention back to his fantasy, he saw Snape walking towards him, Snape holding out his hand.
Nervously, Harry took it. Then, Harry became too scared to continue to dream. The mystery scared
him.
The boy walked over to the corner, where Snape had stowed his guitar. Gently, he picked up the
instrument and began to play. Aimlessly he played, filling the room with gentle music for hours.
Song after song poured from the boy. He didn't notice when Snape entered the room, didn't realize
that the older man was standing in the doorway, watching him play.
He stared at the boy in wonderment. He'd never been exposed to much music. His father had
preferred silence, and his mother had bowed to her husband's desires. It fascinated him to hear
lilting notes float through his living space. Harry looked calm, relaxed. The boy had talent. The
potions master could have stood there for hours, listening to the boy play. So he did. Gently, he
placed his bags down onto the floor, and then he stood in the hallway, watching the boy he
secretly desired play. He let his eyes carefully examine the boy's face. Though Harry was thin due
to mistreatment, his features were beautiful, as if sculpted in fine porcelain. His petite hands
moved over the battered guitar with ease. Had his eyes not been obscured by shaggy, unruly black
hair, Snape would have noticed that the green orbs were closed.
After what seemed like only a few minutes, Harry ceased playing and placed the guitar in the
corner. Without seeing Snape, the boy collapsed onto the sofa and stared into the fire. It was
then that Snape entered the room. He was careful to make enough noise to alert the boy to his
presence before actually entering. Placing his bags on the kitchen table, he looked over to Harry,
who had turned to look at him. He smiled drowsily.
"Where've you been," Harry asked.
"Out," replied Snape.
"What'd you do?" Clearly, the boy was trying to make conversation.
"I had some errands to run," replied Snape.
"Oh."
A minute of awkward silence passed between the two, as Snape moved to put away his purchases. He
shuffled items around in cupboards. He heard the shuffle of feet and knew that Harry had stepped
into the kitchen as well.
"You wouldn't want to play wizard's chess, would you," whispered Harry shyly. Snape's heart almost
broke. He knew from the way that Harry asked that his offers of companionship were always
rejected. He looked over to Harry, who was staring at his feet, looking like he would run if need
be.
"Sure, I just need to finish putting a few things away," Snape replied. He smiled as Harry
excitedly trotted to the living room to set up the wizard's chess board. So excited for such a
little bit of companionship.
Walking over to the chess set, Snape wanted to laugh at how Harry had set up the pieces. It was
obvious that he hadn't played wizard's chess much. In fact, Snape was willing to bet that he was
pretty terrible at the game.
"You've played wizard's chess before," asked Snape.
"Occasionally. Ron normally wins though," said Harry.
"Interesting," muttered Snape.
"What's so interesting about that," asked Harry, ready to defend his friend's honor.
"He just doesn't seem like the type who would like wizard's chess, that's all," replied Snape.
"Well, he doesn't, not really."
The two began to play in silence, Snape allowing Harry the first move. He waited for the onslaught
of taunts to emerge from the persnickety pieces.
"Hey Snape," hollered the boisterous bishop, "who's the cute boy? Another one of your boy toys,
hmm?" Snape glared at the bishop.
"What," asked a queen, "Snape has a boyfriend? Sure took him long enough."
"I'll say," interjected the king.
"No one asked you," scolded the queen.
"Sorry."
Snape could hardly look Harry in the face from embarrassment. He wanted to chuckle and murder the
chess set at the same time. Finally, he got the courage to look at Harry, who had turned an
interesting shade of crimson. Silently, the boy who lived moved a piece. Then, the other side of
the chess board came to life.
"Hey, who are you," asked one of Harry's pawns.
"Yeah," chimed in one of the knights, "we've never seen you before.
"I'm telling you," said Snape's queen, "he's the new fellow."
"He's much skinnier than the other one," replied the knight.
"Maybe we should just let them play," suggested Snape's king, noticing the embarrassment on Snape's
face."
"No one cares what you think," yelled Harry's queen.
"I think it's a good idea," said Harry's king, in a weak attempt at defending his fellow monarch.
"No one cares what you think either," bellowed a knight.
Snape moved his bishop just so that it would take out one of the bickering queens.
"Right, about time someone took her out," muttered her knight. "So Snape, tell us about this new
kid over here."
Harry attacked using a knight, which he would soon learn was a bad idea, at least according to the
pieces.
"No, no, boy, you don't move a knight to attack a queen or a bishop, least not yet. Besides, if
this is your first date, you should let Snape win. If he wins, he puts out." At that statement,
Harry simply looked confused.
"I follow you up through the 'let Snape win' part. But what's this rubbish about 'putting out',"
asked Harry.
"Don't listen to them, Harry," spoke Snape abruptly, afraid that the pieces would upset the boy
with their certain to be explicit explanation of 'putting out.' Abruptly, he began gathering up
the chess pieces.
"Maybe we should play a game that doesn't talk back, hmm Harry," asked Snape.
"Okay."
In silence, the pair sat. Snape was at a loss for a game to play. He looked at Harry, who seemed
content to just sit on the soft sofa.
"Harry, what happened with your relatives," asked Snape. Harry looked at him like a deer in the
headlights.
"Um..."
"I just ask because I think perhaps it would help you to talk about it. Maybe the past would seem
less scary if it were talked about."
"Well, I don't know where to start," whispered Harry. His personality seemed to shift instantly.
Just moments before, he had joined Snape in laughing in embarrassment at the chess pieces. He'd
seemed almost normal. Now, however, he seemed to be no more than a scared little boy.
"Wherever you feel comfortable, Harry, is the place to start," replied Snape.
"I was bad," he spoke quietly, "I never did things right. I forgot to cook dinner right, or I
didn't fold Dudley's shirts, or I broke a dish. I tried to do everything they wanted, but..."
"But what, Harry," coaxed Snape.
"It was never right. All I wanted was to please them, so that they would love me. I never did
enough," he said, his voice cracking.
"What happened when it wasn't enough?"
"Then they hurt me," whispered Harry, tears in his eyes. "I couldn't stop them. I did everything I
could to make them happy, but I failed. I guess," he muttered, "they just gave me what I
deserved."
"You didn't deserve it, Harry," sad Snape, reaching out to give Harry a hug. "No person deserves
that." He felt the boy curl into him, as if he were a puppy.
"Then why did they do it," cried Harry. "My cousin, he never got hurt, never had to go without
food, never had to..."
"Had to what, Harry?"
"He never had to do things that hurt. He doesn't know what it's like to have someone tower over
you like that, and you're so small, so helpless, so scared, and all they do is hurt you. You just
want them to love you, and so you think that maybe this time, you'll behave just right, and it'll
all just stop," rattled off Harry. He sobbed.
"Harry, you didn't deserve what happened to you." Snape petted the boy's back, trying to pass
calming energy to him through his hands.
"Then why.." began Harry.
"I don't know, Harry, I don't know."
Snape listened to the boy mutter for hours, silently growing angrier and angrier at the blasted
muggles. With every fragmented tale of neglect, he wanted to hurt them. Every time abuse was
mentioned, he wanted to slaughter them, torture them. All he could do, though, was hold Harry and
reassure him that it wasn't his fault. Finally, though, Snape looked down at the boy leaning into
him and realized that he had fallen into a fitful slumber. Gently, he lifted the boy and carried
him to the bedroom. Harry had taken to sleeping with Snape simply because it was easier to keep
tabs on him that way. The potions master was able to respond more quickly to the boy's nightmares,
more able to talk him through any cravings for drugs. Secretly, he knew, it allowed him to sleep
in the same bed as the person he had come to call "his."
Yes, like it or not, Snape was becoming attached to Harry, although he didn't quite understand the
meaning of the feelings. He only knew that every time the boy cried, he wanted to take away his
pain, every time the boy laughed, he wanted to treasure.
Laying the boy who lived down on the bed, he whispered, "Goodnight, my boy." Tentatively, he
brushed the boy's forehead with a light kiss. Silently, he walked out of the room, making certain
to cast bonding charms between him and Harry. He then began his Christmas preparations. Carefully,
he wrapped up the clothes and music books he had purchased for the boy. Although it was against
his nature to be decorative, he tied bows on each box. He sat back and admired his handiwork,
smiling at the penguins adorning the wrapping paper. Then, he began the task of erecting the tree.
Part of the professor wanted to taunt himself, for here he was, getting ready to decorate a
Christmas tree. Instead, he decorated the tree with sparkling lights, glittering ornaments, and
tinsel. Taking a step back, he admired the way that the lights shone through the pine needles. He
placed the parcels under the tree.
Like a small child, Snape was now inexplicably too excited to feel tired. He couldn't wait to see
Harry's face, to hear what he had to say about the whole thing. The little voice inside his head
snidely reminded him that James and Lily Potter had been Jewish, but the rational Snape knew that
the muggles hadn't raised Harry with any semblance of tradition. Harry probably didn't even know
what a synagogue was. No, the boy didn't even know what it was to be loved, something that was far
more basic and essential than any religion. Religion was near useless, in Snape's opinion, unless
accompanied by love. The question was, though, if Harry would ever be able to trust someone enough
to love and be loved. Snape hoped that the muggles hadn't broken him so badly as that.
When Harry woke up the next morning, he could smell someone cooking. Scents of ginger, cloves, and
cinnamon had wafted into the bedroom. The distinct aroma of coffee cut through the sweeter smells.
Stretching, Harry was not surprised to find himself in Snape's bed. He had become used to this
occurrence, although he still panicked occasionally. The noise and smells from the kitchen were
too much for him to ignore. He knew that, unlike the Dursleys, when Snape cooked, he generally
shared with Harry. Related to this, Harry had gained some weight since residing with Snape,
although Harry hadn't noticed. The professor took pride in Harry's no longer emaciated appearance.
Still in his borrowed pajamas, Harry wandered out into the kitchen. His eyes went wide at the
scene.
In the living room was an enormous Christmas tree, covered in lights and colorful ornaments. The
scent of pine now invaded his nostrils, competing with the smells of cooking also present in the
room. A fire roared in the fireplace. The table was covered in goodies. Apparently, Snape had been
busy. There were ginger bread cookies, pumpkin pie, and even a small ginger bread house. Harry
noted with amusement that Snape's talents did not lie in the artistic realm. Wide eyed, he looked
at Severus, expecting some sort of explanation.
"Merry Christmas, Harry," said Snape, smiling. "Would you like a cookie.?"
Nervously, Harry took a cookie, expecting this to be some sort of weird trick, or better yet, some
kind of malicious dream. The cookie tasted real, but it couldn't possibly be. Snape noticed the
boy's silence. He had expected this. Since no one had ever been openly nice to the boy, he was
expecting it all to come crashing down around him.
"I figured that since there are two of us here this year, we ought to have a real Christmas.
Normally, I just join the other teachers for dinner and games, but this year..." he trailed off,
his eyes on Harry. The boy had just discovered that there were presents under the tree. He watched
as, for the first time, Harry experienced finding a present with his name on it on Christmas.
There was, of course, the parcel he always received from Mrs. Weasely. Snape knew, though, that
this was different. These presents were all under a tree, in a warm, safe home. Gently, Harry
picked up one of the gifts and traced the design of the wrapping paper.
"You can open them, you know," Snape prodded.
"It's just I don't have anything for you," the boy whispered, looking at Snape with wide eyes.
"Yes, well, that doesn't matter," replied Snape, not wanting to speak the truth. In reality, the
boy had given him a gift already. Even if Harry was never able to reciprocate any emotion, the boy
had given Snape the ability to care about someone again. He realized then and there that he loved
Harry Potter.
"Go on, Harry, open them."
Harry didn't need any more coaxing. He tore the paper off of one parcel, revealing the new clothes
that Snape had purchased.
"I...wow...never had new clothes before," Harry stammered.
"Well, there's a first time for everything, isn't there?" Harry nodded, and excitedly put on the
sweater that Snape had purchased. The ladies had been right. Harry looked wonderful in burgundy.
Harry reached for another parcel and opened it, revealing new music books. Snape had suspected
that the boy had never actually had any musical training.
"Thanks," he whispered, thumbing through the books. Looking up at Snape, he spoke again, his eyes
wet with potential tears. "Thanks...Sev..."
"I'm happy to do it for you, Harry," said Snape, secretly thrilled to have the boy use his first
name. He walked over to Harry and set a cup of cocoa by him. Severus was content to watch the boy
enjoy his new clothes, his books, the day. He was sitting on the couch, listening to the boy
attempt to play a song out of his new book when the music suddenly stopped, and there was a warm
body sitting next to him.
"Um," said a small voice, "I was wondering..."
"Yes," spoke Snape.
"Um...could I...could I..." the voice stopped abruptly, and Snape could tell that it was because
the boy was scared of something.
"What is it, Harry?"
"I just...I don't know why, exactly, but I was wondering if maybe I could hug you," whispered
Harry. Shyly, he looked at his feet, suddenly interested in the movement of his toes. To answer
his question, Snape gently placed one arm around Harry. The boy started for a second, but then
move to hug Snape. Severus' heart nearly burst with joy when he felt the thin arms wrap around
him. Snape softly stroked Harry's messy hair. He knew that this could be all that he'd ever get
out of Harry, but he didn't care.
"Sev," spoke Harry.
"Yes?"
"Can we play wizard's chess again?"
Snape laughed. "Of course, but only if you can put up with the heckling pieces. They tend to
be...inappropriate at times."
As an answer, Harry shrugged, and began to set up the chess pieces.
"Hey, look who's back," hollered a knight.
"Didn't get enough, hey kid," questioned a wily bishop.
"Well that's obvious, Oliver," scolded the white queen, "he's still here, isn't he?"
"Your name is Oliver," asked an incredulous Harry, picking up the bishop.
"Yes, and if you'll kindly put me down, maybe I'll be nice to you." Hurriedly, Harry placed the
bishop down on a square.
"Do they all have names," he inquired of Snape.
"Probably."
"We bloody well do all have names, thank you very much," spoke the indignant black queen. "I'm
Elizabeth."
"Well, don't be rude, boy," chided a knight, "introduce yourself to us. We already know the slimy
git," he said, indicating Snape.
"I'm..um...Harry...," answered the boy.
"Oh, a real eloquent one this is," chimed in a pawn, "where'd you find him, Sev?"
"That is none of your business," he replied, purposefully using the pawn in a move that he knew
would get the pawn 'killed.' Looking at Harry, he said, "I suggest you do the same."
When Harry picked up a pawn, he was assaulted with a barrage of questions.
"Are you his boyfriend, because if you are, you're pretty cute," said the pawn. "Are you going to
stay? Sev never uses us when no one is here. We're forced to just stay in that blasted small box,
waiting for someone to play with us."
"You're chess pieces," scolded Severus. "That's what you do, waiting for people to play with you."
"That's all well and good for you to say," retorted the pawn. "You've obviously never seen our
living quarters."
"Actually, I have," sneered Snape. "I picked them out myself. You'll notice the utilization of
furniture to make them more comfortable." He immediately took out the pawn when Harry placed it on
the board. The boy was terrible at wizard's chess. Snape suspected that the boy hadn't really
wanted to play chess so much as listen to the pieces bicker. He then got up to refill his cup of
coffee. It was then that the black queen leaned, as much as a chess piece can lean, anyway, and
whispered to Harry.
"He loves you, you know," she said to a very surprised Harry.
"What," asked an incredulous Harry.
"He loves you," she repeated.
"Is this what it feels like, then," pondered a very confused Harry.
"Is this what what feels like," asked Snape, returning to the table.
"Oh, the queen and I, we were just talking is all," said a blushing Harry. "I...um...have to go to
the bathroom." Snape followed the boy with his eyes, and then picked up the queen.
"What did you tell him," he threatened.
"Oh, just the truth, that's all," she answered mysteriously.
"What does that even mean," he asked.
"You know what it means, Sev. You know that I only do what I'm good at," she said provocatively.
"He told him," helped a king.
"Damn it, Edward," yelled the queen, "why did you have to go and ruin my fun?"
"You were making him suffer," replied a sheepish king.
"You know I don't care about that, you idiot," she retorted. Chided, the king returned to his
square. The queen turned her attention to Snape. "I merely told him that you had feelings for
him."
"You didn't."
"Yup," she said, flicking her hair flirtatiously.
"You've probably scared the poor boy," he said.
"Oh, I wouldn't have told him had I thought it would do any harm," alluded the queen.
"What, exactly, are you talking about," said Snape, furrowing his brow.
"He has similar feelings," she stated simply.
"How do you know?"
"I have my ways. He's been hurt, though," she worried.
"That's an understatement," replied Snape, bitterly.
"He doesn't understand his feelings," she continued.
Snape sighed, not sure that he understood his feelings either. He was, after all, talking to a
chess piece. That had to be a sign of madness.
"You must help him understand his feelings," instructed the queen.
"But how do I do so without scaring him away," asked Snape.
"Take your time, it's that simple," she replied.
"You better not be fucking with me," he warned.
The rest of the break passed without event. To the untrained eye, very little change occurred in the relationship between Harry and Severus. This was far from the truth, however. Small gestures indicated otherwise. Snape was careful to keep his voice low and soothing around Harry, mindful of his body language, and refrained from calling the boy who lived anything but, well, Harry. Never had Snape taken such pains with anyone. He'd been reserved, severe, and austere for the majority of his life, and though he was not an old man, he often seemed that way due to his demeanor. The boy who lived had awoken something within the professor that compelled him to care about people. Instead of viewing the boy with indifference, he wanted to protect him, help him to not feel pain, help him grow into a stronger human being. Harry had gone nearly all of his young life without having his needs met, and Snape wanted to be the person to rectify that.
Changes to Harry were more obvious. He was quieter, not having the façade of intoxicants to hide behind. Little things startled him now, as Ron noticed one day at lunch. The red-haired boy had playfully jabbed Harry with his elbow only to have Harry shrink into himself for a few minutes. Puzzled, Ron vowed to be more careful around his markedly changed friend. It was Hermione, though, who broached the subject with Harry at dinner.
"Harry," she'd said carefully, "you seem different to me. What's up?" She looked at her friend quizzically.
"It's…well…I don't really want to talk about it here," Harry answered.
"It's not a boy, is it," questioned Hermione. She and Ron had long known that Harry fancied boys. They knew, although Harry did not. When Harry shook his head, she sighed. "What is it then?"
"Well, there have been…changes recently," he replied.
"What sort of changes?"
Harry didn't know where to begin. How could he possibly explain his previous life with the Durselys, his foray into drug use, and his utter confusion with relationships to his friends? He looked at his bushy haired friend fondly. He knew she had his best interests in mind. Hermione was like that. She took care of her boys. Ron was the one she loved, the one she would marry. Harry was like her brother. She cleaned up his messes, fussed over his injuries, and laughed with him. His eyes moved to Snape, who was looking at him fondly. Harry had never been so confused in his entire life.
"I'll explain, or try to, later this evening," he whispered. As luck would have it, it was a Friday night. The trio would be able to corral themselves in the Gryffindor common room later that evening and talk into the night.
"Whatever it is, Harry, it'll be ok," reassured Hermione.
Later that evening, the trio gathered in the common room. The fireplace danced with life, casting its orange light onto everything in the room. Falling onto the plush sofas, the trio began to chat in contentment. Ron had snagged some butterbeers from the kitchen, and Hermione had somehow acquired a lot of jelly beans. They were the good kind too, like muggles ate sometimes. For a few minutes, Harry felt comfortable and safe, nestled in between his best friends on the sofa.
"Harry, what's happened," asked Hermione.
"Where do I even begin," sighed Harry.
"It's ok, mate," said Ron.
"Well," Harry began, "you know that my life with the Durselys was not…pleasant," he began. "Things were really bad, actually. They did things to me." Harry choked on his own voice, not really wanting to share this information with anyone.
"Like what," asked Ron, "I'll kill them. You want I should kill them for you?"
"Ron," scolded Hermione, "let Harry finish." It was clear, though, that she too wanted to give the Durselys a piece of her mind. Her eyes shone with rage. Unlike Ron, she was able to infer what had happened, somehow.
"Well," Harry continued, his voice getting small, "after a while, I needed some help, to get me through things." The other two nodded. "I couldn't find any people, so I started…doing other things, using other things, if you catch my drift." There were tears in Harry's eyes, and he began to curl into a ball.
"It just got so hard," he whimpered. "I was never good enough, it was never soon enough."
"Shh, Harry, it's ok," soothed Hermione, stroking Harry's back gently.
"I don't even know how to relate to people," he said.
"How do you mean," asked Hermione cautiously.
"It's just…there are these feelings that I have. I'm not used to them," he spoke, looking up at Hermione wide-eyed.
"I knew it," she exclaimed, smiling. "There is a boy. Who is it," she asked.
Harry became quiet. He wasn't sure if he could explain these feelings that he had. Part of him wanted to return to before, where he could be content living an emotionally stunted life. He never would have known this, but prior to his time with Snape, Harry had been about as emotionally mature as an eleven year old boy. He was used to wanting a father figure, a mother. He knew that when he went to the Burrow, he would feel jealous of the Weaselys because they had a father like Arthur. During the summers, he missed Hermione because she took care of him during the year. This was more than that, though.
"It's just that there's this person," he began. Then, he stopped, and asked, "How do you know that it's a 'he'?"
"I have my ways," laughed Hermione. She and Ron smiled for Harry to continue.
"I just feel comfortable around him, safe, protected, warm, and…something else," Harry trailed off.
"Have you ever had a crush before, Harry," asked Ron.
"A what," asked a confused Harry. He knew he'd heard the word, but he hadn't the slightest idea what it meant.
"A romantic feeling for another person," responded Hermione. When Harry looked at her quizzically, she sighed. "It's when you really fancy someone, want to see them a lot, and want to be with them."
"Oh," he said, a light going on inside his head, "like you and Ron."
Hermione blushed and said, "Yes, well…sort of. What do you feel, Harry?"
"I dream about them," he began, "and my stomach feels odd too, like I've just gone on a really dramatic roller coaster. I find myself distracted in their presence."
"I think," Hermione spoke, "that you have a crush." The girl was fairly certain that she knew who the lucky male was, but she was not about to mention it.
"What do I do about it," asked Harry.
"Well, you could tell the person about it," she started. When Harry got an alarmed look on his face, she backed off. "Or you could try to figure out if they had feelings for you before you tell them how you feel."
Harry thought for a moment, remembering the chess games with Snape, and recalled what the chess pieces had said. He wondered if such an object could be trusted.
"What if," he asked, "you've heard from a source that this person shares your feelings?"
"Then I think," Hermione answered, "that you ought to tell them how you feel and get on with it." She smiled mischievously.
"Get on with what," asked Harry.
"Harry, you're hopeless, you know that, right," asked Ron.
He'd been out of sorts since the boy had moved back to Gryffindor tower. True, Harry still came to visit fairly often. At least three nights a week, the pair could be found reading aloud to each other, playing chess, and otherwise entertaining themselves. Sometimes Harry played guitar while Snape read. It wasn't the same, though. He wanted the boy to stay, wanted to go to sleep with him, and wake up next to him. Partly, though, he couldn't reconcile having feelings for a student. There wasn't a rule against teacher student relationships, per se, but the idea made Snape nervous. Finally, he became antsy enough to need to talk to someone. Knowing he'd never hear the end of it, he made his way to Dumbledore's office.
"Pop Rocks," he said. Snape was allowed passage to the headmaster's office, and was pleased to see that Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, sipping a cup of tea. Idly, Snape wondered if Dumbledore ever did anything else besides sip tea.
"Dear boy, what brings you to see this old man at such an hour," asked Dumbledore.
Taking his time, Snape sat down in a chair. He poured himself a cup of tea, which was quite out of character. Normally, Snape refused every refreshment that Dumbledore had to offer.
"I am conflicted," spoke Snape.
"What about?"
"Ethics," spoke the potions master.
"Severus, of all people, you should not worry about ethics. Your teaching methods are slightly unorthodox, but you are quite ethical," replied Dumbledore.
"It's about Harry," confessed Snape.
"Is the boy all right," questioned Dumbledore.
"Oh, he's quite all right. Never been more himself, actually," said Snape. "That's not the issue."
"And the issue is," asked Dumbledore, rising to walk about his cluttered office.
"Of a controversial nature."
"Ah, I see. I was wondering when this would happen," mused Dumbledore. "Clearly, it's occurrence now does pose some problems…"
"What are you talking about," asked a befuddled Snape.
"Well your feelings for Harry Potter, of course," replied Dumbledore, as if there could be nothing more obvious in the world. "He'll be having feelings for you too, I suspect."
"But," exclaimed Snape, "how could anyone possibly know?"
"Prophecies," spoke Dumbledore.
"Bloody prophecies."
"Indeed," agreed Dumbledore. "They're always getting in the way of what we have planned."
"What do you suggest I do," asked Snape.
"Take good care of Harry, of course."
"But the rules," contested Snape. Dumbledore held up his hand before Snape could continue to speak.
"The rules do not apply here, Severus. No wizard has ever been able to avoid a prophecy. It is simply impossible. Just as Voldemort was destined to mark Harry as his equal, you were destined to pick up the pieces of the boy who lived, put them together, and love him. There is no avoiding it," concluded Dumbledore.
"I see," muttered Snape.
"Oh, be happy about it, Severus. You will find that having companionship is far better than being introverted. Just do me one favor," asked the headmaster.
"Yes?"
"Be discrete."
Hermione slammed down a book in the library, surprised at what she'd just found. She'd been doing research for divination, her least favorite class. Her homework assignment had instructed her to look up the history of prophecies in general and to write about one prophecy that had come to fruition. She was finding this exceedingly aggravating because so few of the prophecies recorded in this book were accurate. In fact, in the entire history of prophecies, there had only been a few to be proven correct. The whole subject made Hermione angry because it was so imprecise. She knew that there were true seers in the world, but their accomplishments were overshadowed by the fakes who hogged the limelight.
Frustrated, she'd begin skimming the index. Some prophecies were so famous that they were referred to by name. Others were catalogued by the names of the individuals involved. She noticed Harry's name, which didn't surprise her at all. It had been revealed, after all, that there was a prophecy concerning him and the dark lord. This was one of the few accurate ones, actually. What surprised her was that there were two prophecies catalogued under Harry's name, not just one. Hurriedly, she turned to the indicated pages. What she found immobilized her for a moment.
"He will be frail, in danger, and a dark man shall rescue him. The marked boy will be fearful at first, not knowing his feelings. The pair will be drawn together by magic, a bond formed. There will be no undoing it. They will rescue each other."
Hermione stopped reading. She knew who it was. Harry didn't have a simple crush. He was feeling a strong, irresistible attraction to the dark man in the prophecy. The man was Severus Snape. Leaving the book wide-open, she ran out of the library to seek out her friends
.
"Sometimes," he said, "I don't want to ever face them." The boy who lived was lounging in Snape's living room, looking quite relaxed.
"You shouldn't have to, Harry," replied Snape. He was relishing the boy's company.
"They expect things of me, though," retorted the boy. "I have to save the world, I have to be perfect, I have to be strong, and I'm just not."
"Harry," said Snape, moving next to the boy, "I expect nothing from you." He stroked the boy's cheek, wishing he could convey his feelings for the boy properly. He wanted Harry as he was, without any pretensions, without any requirements.
"But you aren't them." Harry's green eyes met Snape's black ones, and for a moment, there passed a strange understanding. It was as if in that instant, both individuals realized the intensity of their feelings for one another.
"Sometimes," Harry began, changing the subject, "I want things I don't understand."
"Like," asked Snape.
"I just get these feelings," the boy replied, looking nervous, scared. "It's like caring for someone, but it's really intense and I want something from them, but I don't know what it could be." He looked at Snape earnestly, hoping that the older man could explain his feelings to him.
"Some might say that those feelings are love," ventured Snape.
"What is love," asked Harry. Snape sighed, unsure where to begin. He silently cursed the muggles for raising a boy who had no concept of love.
"It's when you care for someone, when you don't care about their accomplishments, their mistakes, their faults. You want them, and you don't know why. You'd do anything to help them." He looked at the boy curiously.
"I have that," whispered Harry. He looked at Snape, eyes full of feeling and fear, and softly spoke, "I have that for you."
"And I for you," replied Snape, pulling the boy into a warm hug. The pair sat in content silence, looking at the fire and mulling things over in their head.
"What now," asked Harry.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if you care for me, and I care for you, what do we do now," questioned Harry. For a boy who had seen so much pain, he had an uncanny innocence about him. An innocence, Snape knew, that made him completely ignorant of the fact that sex could be used as an expression of love.
"Some people get married, or agree to spend their lives together. Others try to spend a lot of time together, to get to know one another better. Sometimes the people involved live together," he answered.
"Like my aunt and uncle," muttered Harry.
"Well, sort of," agreed Snape. "Hopefully, our relationship will be more stable than that." Turning to Harry seriously, he continued. "There are other things, too, that people in relationships do."
"Like what?"
"Those involved might kiss," Snape said, looking at the beautiful boy beside him, "or touch each other or even have sex." It was then that Harry tensed up, became fearful, and curled up into Snape.
"Like my uncle did," whispered a tearful Harry.
"No," soothed Snape. "This is different, gentler, and involves consent. The mechanics are the same, but the mood and intent are different." He gently wiped the tears from Harry's cheek.
"Are we going to…" trailed off Harry.
"Perhaps some day, but not until you're ready," Snape reassured, kissing the boy's head.
"But you want to," inquired Harry, looking up at Snape.
"Yes, but not until you're ready."
"What if," sobbed Harry, "I'm never ready?"
"We'll deal with that," replied Snape. "It doesn't change the way I feel about you."
Silence fell over the room again, Snape relishing the boy's budding trust in him. Harry had been able to trust him enough to express his feelings, been able to trust him enough to allow Snape's hands to touch his back, his face. Snape smiled as he realized that this was the first time that he'd hugged Harry without the boy flinching instinctively. The boy was learning to trust.
Harry was struggling with his transfiguration homework, mostly because he didn't see the point in turning a paperclip into a beetle. Maybe it was the other way around. He only knew that whatever it was, it had no direct application to real life. It wasn't as if he was going to make beetles for a living. The common room was full of students doing homework, students playing. Fred and George were over in the corner, charming pencils so that they glowed.
"I can't believe that they only got three O.W.L.s each," muttered Hermione. "They're bloody brilliant." She turned her head back to Harry and his now crawling paperclip. The boy had enlisted her help, but he wasn't really listening.
"Well, I've told you before, 'Mione, they're smart," said Ron.
"Right, they just don't give a damn," she said.
"Obviously." A pencil that had grown wings suddenly flew at Hermione. When she batted it away, it blew her a raspberry before fluttering back to George. She turned her head to Harry. All week, she'd been dying to ask him about the prophecy she'd found. Harry had been spending more time out of Gryffindor tower, and Hermione suspected that he was hiding in Snape's quarters. Something about him seemed calmer as well. He didn't flinch nearly as often when he encountered loud noises or unexpected movements. Ron's jovial rough housing didn't scare him nearly as much as it used to. As weird as the idea of Harry dating Snape seemed to her, she had to admit that if that was, in fact, what was going on, it was doing Harry a load of good. He seemed more whole than he'd ever been before. She followed his green eyes, which were resting on Fred and George in amusement. She was surprised, but it looked like Harry was actually contemplating something mischievous. She watched as Harry gently picked up his insect like paper clip and charmed it so that it could fly. Then, he released it and watched as it flew about the room, startling first years and skittish girls. Finally, the paperclip landed on Fred's head, utterly confusing the twin.
"Harry," she began, "where do you go off to at night?"
Startled by the abrupt change in interaction between himself and Hermione, Harry merely looked at the girl, confused.
"Don't play dumb, either, I know you're doing something," she pried.
"It's nothing, really," he stuttered, revealing that whatever it was, it was a big deal.
"Harry, I know who it is that you fancy," she spoke, dropping the bombshell. Harry stared at her, incredulous, eyes wide like platters.
"How," he whispered, "do you know?" He suddenly became nervous and skittish.
"I found a prophecy," she replied simply, "and I'm not an idiot. When it said, 'He will be frail, in danger, and a dark man shall rescue him. The marked boy will be fearful at first, not knowing his feelings. The pair will be drawn together by magic, a bond formed. There will be no undoing it. They will rescue each other,' I figured that you were the marked boy, and it didn't take much speculation to figure out who the dark man was, given that there are only two in your life, and one of them would want to kill you." Before Harry could formulate a reply, though, she continued. "I want you to know, though, that as odd as it might seem to me, I am happy for you, and I think this is a good thing."
"Really," asked Harry, in a small voice.
"Really," she said. "He's helped you more than you know." She paused for a moment before pondering, "You two aren't, you know, shagging or anything, are you?"
"No," said an alarmed Harry.
"He'll probably want to, you know," she prodded.
"Not till I'm ready," replied Harry firmly. Hermione smiled, satisfied that she had extracted the information she'd wanted. She had been concerned that Snape might push Harry, might try to get him to engage in activities that he wasn't ready for. It seemed, though, that Snape was willing to wait, to take things at a sluggish pace. Part of the girl rejoiced, thinking that Harry might get to know true intimacy after all.
"You haven't, you know, told anyone," asked Harry.
"No," she said, planting a kiss on Harry's cheek. "That's your job." She smiled fondly at her friend, pleased to seem him so happy. He yawned tiredly, and she patted her lap, saying, "you can lie down if you want." Without answer, the boy who lived snuggled up against Hermione.
"Hey," cried Ron, "why does he get to cuddle you now?"
"Jealous," she teased.
"That's neither here nor there," said the red headed boy. "Why don't you ever let me lie down on your lap like that?"
"Because," she said, "Harry is too gay to have an impure thought for a girl pass through his head, unlike some people I know." She turned her face up to smile at Ron, who just shook his head. Ron leaned down and kissed Hermione on the lips.
"As long as he doesn't sleep with us," warned Ron, eyeing his best friend suspiciously. Ron went back to goofing off with the twins, who had moved on to trying to make pencils explode. The ceiling would soon become riddled with pieces of lead and small holes caused by projectiles getting stuck.
Snape had never been so angry in his entire life. Vengeance coursed through his veins as he thought over the events of the last few nights. Without any announcement, Harry had begun sleeping in his quarters. Being in close proximity to one another had caused the magical bond between the two wizards to grow stronger. Snape began to see what Harry saw when he remembered, feel what he felt when he dreamt. The past few nights had been full of nightmares. During the day, Harry was able to function much like everyone else. It was the nighttime that haunted him now. His sleep was disturbed by excruciatingly accurate accounts of the abuse he had endured at the hands of his former guardians. Cries for help punctuated his dreams like sinister exclamation points. Begging for mercy from someone named Vernon, Harry would remain delirious even after being shaken awake. As an incognito death eater, Snape had seen just about every atrocity known to humankind, but what those muggles had done to Harry was completely unacceptable. They had caused damage to an innocent, something that even the dark lord was wary of doing. Their actions had hurt Harry in a way that might never heal.
To add insult to injury, the boy was practically useless sexually, not that Snape expected much of him. The older man simply got frustrated. It went like this, see. The pair would be cuddled on the couch, Harry leaning into Snape. Occasionally, they would kiss. The first time Snape had kissed Harry, however, he had tensed up and panicked. Instinctively, Snape had ceased kissing the boy, not wanting to push him into something he wasn't ready for. This wasn't what tore Snape up inside, though. What really aggravated him was that Harry thought that he had no right to stop Snape's amorous advances. He swore up and down that he was ok when he was really trembling, told Snape that he could continue when the potions professor knew he couldn't. The boy thought that he had to acquiesce to every one of Snape's desires. Seeing Harry like that had driven Snape mad with rage. It infuriated him to have his lover be afraid of him, as if he too would hurt him.
He was going to kill those bloody muggles. At the very least, he was going to make their existence miserable. The way they had treated Harry was inexcusable.
That night, Snape gave Harry a dreamless sleep potion, hoping that it would allow the boy to sleep through the entire night. He lay by the boy as he drifted into a deep sleep. Once Harry's breathing became soft and regular, Severus roused himself and cast a binding charm on Harry. Dressing in his darkest robes, he quietly exited the room and walked up to the fireplace. There was no way to apparate from Hogwarts. He could, however, get to the Durselys from his fireplace. Grabbing a handful of Floo Powder, he stepped into the fireplace.
"Number 4 Privet Drive," he spoke softly. Feeling the familiar tug about his stomach, he was whirled from his own quarters into the eerily familiar living room of the muggles. He could see it all as if it were yesterday. The hallway remained unchanged from when he had rescued Harry. Every bloody detail was the same. It was as if the boy hadn't ever been here. Silently, Snape stepped out of the fireplace and walked up the stairs, to where he knew the rooms would be. Turning towards the hallway at the top of the stairs, he saw immediately the doors he was looking for. He entered the master bedroom first, and watched for a moment as Harry's uncle and aunt slept peacefully. Their faces looked relaxed, and it was hard to believe that such people could be so evil. Had Severus not heard Harry's stories, seen his memories through their strengthening bond, he would not have believed these two people to be harmful. Deliberately, Snape moved to make a noise by picking up a vase and smashing it on the floor. It was time to begin.
Petunia awoke first, and screamed when she saw the large man standing in her bedroom. Vernon sat upright as if a fire cracker had gone off under his arse.
"What are you doing here," demanded the man, "you have no right to be here in my house."
"I am here," spoke Snape sinisterly, "to exact my revenge." Severely, he raised his wand and pointed it at the couple.
"What have we ever done to you," cried Petunia, shielding herself with the blankets as if they would, in fact, stave off injury.
"You have," Snape replied angrily, "irreparably damaged the one I care about most." Before the pair could reply, Snape had taken a few steps toward the bed.
"Crucio," he cried, aiming his wand straight at the couple, "you shall know his pain."
When Harry woke up the next morning, he found Severus lying in the bed beside him, just as he had been when the boy had drifted into sleep. Pleased, Harry snuggled into his arms. The boy's movement roused Snape.
"Morning, sleepyhead," the potions professor said.
"Morning," replied Harry.
"You know," said Snape, glancing at the clock, "if we get out of bed now we'll just make it to lunch in time." When the boy didn't respond and instead nuzzled his head against Snape's shoulder, Snape sighed and said, "besides, a certain boy I know has homework to do." The older man sat up and gently shook Harry into alertness. Finally, the boy relented and sat up. Shyly, the boy looked at Snape and leaned in for a kiss. It would have seemed remarkably chaste to an onlooker, but to Snape, it was wonderful because the boy had initiated it.
Harry climbed out of bed and wandered to the bathroom. Snape knew what he would do today. His day would be full of homework with friends. He could see the trio now, sitting in overstuffed chairs, arguing over their homework assignments. Later, he would come back to Snape. The boy didn't know, but Severus had invited Hermione to dinner. He knew that the boy had told her about them, and he wanted Harry to know that his friends were welcome in his quarters.
Feeling successful, the older man realized that Harry had no inkling of how he'd really spent his night. With his lover gone to do homework, he collapsed in exhaustion.
It was perfect, thought Hermione, as she looked at her best friend sitting at the table. Everything about him had improved tenfold. His eating habits were returning to normal, he didn't always flinch when startled, and his laughter had returned. She could hardly believe that Severus Snape, the snarky potions professor was responsible for this change in the boy who lived. Hermione had never realized it before, but Harry had been stuck before this year. His emotional growth had somehow been stunted, leaving him with many of the same capacities as an eleven year old boy. Of course, in retrospect, this was obviously not healthy, but she'd gotten used to it. It was refreshing to see Harry go through an emotional growth spurt.
As promised, Snape had provided an excellent dinner, much of it obviously muggle cuisine. Apparently, Severus was fascinated with America and its history. In particular, he found southern culture interesting. Appropriately, this meant that dinner had consisted of hush puppies, sweet potato pie, collard greens, and other such foods that Hermione had never seen. She couldn't say that she particularly minded the different food, though she had entered the apartment on edge, prepared to hate Snape. Instead, she'd found the older gentleman's company to be quite genial. This frustrated her. She hated to be wrong.
"Harry," spoke Snape, "perhaps you'd like to play chess with Hermione?" At this suggestion, Harry got a somewhat naughty look on his face. He replaced it quickly when he saw Hermione looking at him.
"I dunno, Sev," he began, "I was thinking it'd be nice to play some gee-tar," said Harry, in a mock southern accent. "Maybe you two could play." Snape had hardly had time to formulate an answer before Hermione had set up the chess board and was sitting in the living room, in Harry's usual spot, looking expectant. Grudgingly, he sat across from her, while Harry settled himself at his feet, holding his guitar lovingly. Soon, the boy began to play, and the three spent the night in contented companionship. Severus was surprised at how well he tolerated Hermione. He was expecting to hate her, to only tolerate her for Harry's sake. Instead, he found himself having thoughtful discussions with her concerning potion ingredients and precision in the lab. Sure, he'd had such conversations with Harry, but well…that was Harry.
Hermione climbed the stairs to Gryffindor tower quietly, thoughtfully. Her first instinct was to run to Ron and tell him everything she knew. She wanted him to know how their friend had found happiness, how he acted less like a twelve year old and more like an adolescent. Harry hadn't exactly forbidden her from telling anyone, although he had initially asked for her confidence. Now, however, it seemed like he and Snape were willing to be somewhat open, albeit discrete, with their friends. Ron needed to know, she decided.
Stealthily, she crept her way up the stairs into the boy's dormitory. Since Harry had relocated to the dungeons, Ron had been in the happy situation of being without a roommate. She knew that this pleased him, as he'd never had his own room before. The walls were his to decorate. He didn't have to worry about keeping his roommates up by reading, listening to music, or talking to Hermione. She walked up to his door and knocked softly.
"Ron," she whispered, "I just had dinner with Harry and Snape." She waited for a response, hoping that Ron would still be awake. Her waiting appeared to be in vain, and she turned to leave. Just as she was about to leave, though, Ron opened the door and looked at her smugly.
"So, how'd it go," he questioned, leaning on the doorframe.
"Better than I expected."
"What did you expect Hermione," asked Ron. "Did you expect that the two of them would be at each other's throats all night?"
"Well, in a manner of speaking," she began. Ron cut her off.
"I mean, it's not like they're completely smitten with each other and shagging or anything," Ron continued. "They're just having a truce while Snape helps Harry with stuff."
"Sort of, I guess," spoke Hermione tentatively. She walked into Ron's room and flopped down on the boy's large bed. By now, the room was familiar to her. She'd spent many nights curled up by Ron, sharing thoughts and other things with him. Her mind wandered to the day that they'd told Harry about their relationship. Hermione had worried that Harry would be left out, would feel rejected. Instead, he was thrilled for them. She only hoped that Ron could do the same for Harry.
"You know Harry's gay, right Ron," blurted out Hermione.
"What," asked Ron, as he thought. "I guess I never really thought about it. I just figured he wasn't like us. I mean, I thought of him as sort of sexless…kind of like a priest." Ron looked at her curiously. "Why do you mention it?"
"Because Harry is queerer than a ."
"I guess," Ron said, thinking, "I could see that. He never did like girls in the same way. Always spent time with them, but he was, y'know, giving them fashion advice and such." The red head was obviously perplexed, and poked Hermione in the side saying, "but why does this matter? It's not like it changes anything."
Hermione took Ron's statement as permission to continue. Turning to face Ron, she asked him sincerely, "Ron, if Harry were to find someone he loved, you'd be happy for him, right?"
"Of course, "Mione, he's my best mate. I want him to be happy." If it was possible, Ron looked even more confused.
"No matter who he chose, you'd stand by him," she pressed on. She wanted to be certain before she told Ron anything. Harry couldn't take rejection right now. Snape had revealed to her just how complicated his healing process had been.
"I don't understand how this is even a question," spoke Ron, sounding irritated. "You make it sound like he's shacking up with Voldemort or Snape or something."
"If that were the case, could you handle it?"
"I guess," muttered Ron, "as long as I didn't have to like it." Hermione sighed. That was probably the best response she could hope for from Ron. Leaning back into the pillows, she pulled a scrap of paper out of her pocket and began to talk.
"Well, there's this prophecy that I came across in the library, and it concerns Harry." She read the passage to Ron, who looked more confused.
"So Harry's going to fall for a guy with dark hair then," Ron conjectured. "That's good. Keeps me out of the mix," he spoke playfully.
"He's found his dark man," interjected Hermione. "It's Snape."
Ron sat bolt upright in bed, face looking like it'd been slapped. He stared at Hermione as if she'd just spoken in tongues. He waited for her to say something, say anything. He was personally hoping for a statement similar to "joke's on you," but it didn't come.